LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



1 51j1\ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE AMERICAN 



TEMPERANCE SPEAKER, 



No. 1. 



i.i - 



A CHOICE COLLECTION OF 

DIALOGUES, PROSE AID POETRY, 

ESPECIALLY ADAPTED FOR USE IN ALL 

Adult and Juvenile Temperance Organizations, 
SABBATH AND DAY SCHOOLS, 



s 






AND FOR 



PUBLIC AND PRIVATE READINGS, RECITATIONS AND jlDDRESSES. 



Compiled by J. S. OGILVIE. 



->4- 



777?. (,2o H 

1879. ^ 



NEW YORK : 

American Semper ante JlttMtsfjmg $otise, 

2 9 ROSE STREET. 
1879. 



9T 



..©4- 



Copyright. 
By J. S. OGILVIE. 

1879 



PREFACE. 



Many persons will, doubtless, ask why it is that an- 
other book of Recitations and Speeches is sent forth 
to the public to receive from it their verdict of approval 
or disapproval. Our reply is, that we feel that this 
collection fills a place, and supplies a demand, which 
has not been filled before to any extent; and hope that, 
as this is sent forth to aid in advancing the great Tem- 
perance Reform, all friends of the cause everywhere 
will feel it a privilege to aid in its wide circulation, and 
place it in the possession of all Temperance Organiza- 
tions, both Adult and Juvenile, as well as in Sabbath and 
Day Schools. Should this collection meet with public 
favor, another one will follow in due time. 

Any friend of the cause, desiring to contribute original 
or selected articles to such a collection, may forward 
them to the Publisher. 



CONTENTS. 



PROSE. 

An Honest Publican's Advertise- 
ment 80 

Call for Help, A 71 

Discontented Pendulum, The 75 

Drinking Destroys the Intellect 90 

Fire! Fire! 60 

Glass of Cold Water, A . . 18 

Mrs. Tompkins goes to a Spelling 

Bee _ fc .. 6a 

Power of Alcohol, The. 7 

What the Liquor Traffic Does. ...... 54 

Which Will You Choose ? 5a 



DIALOGUES. 

Band of Hope Spectacles 44 

Temperance and Religion 1 3 

The Vagrants 85 

The Wife's Mistake «.., 22 



POETRY. 

Angel's Visit, The 10 

Auction, The 66 

Beware! 17 

Curious Dose, The 68 

Death of the Reveller, The 82 

DonH Drink, Boys! 19 

Down in the Mire 78 

Drunkard, The 41 

Dying Girl, The 94 

Farewell to the Bottle 31 

Father's Example, The 43 

I Drink Water ia 

IsitTrue? 30 

Landlord, The 9 

Little Soldier, The ao 

Little Shoes, The 55 

Mournful Story, A 33 

My Beautiful Nose 39 

My Uncle 50 

Old Brandy Bottle, The 93 

Only A Woman Drunk 88 

Wreck, The 35 

What Does't Thou Here ? ... 37 



KTJLES TO BE OBSEKVED IN EEOITINa. 



Rule i. — Stand erect; hold up your head manfully; keep a full sup- 
ply of breath ; and speak according to the nature of the 
subject you recite. 

Rule 2. — To recite well, you must pronounce every word distinctly 
and correctly. To do this, open your mouth, and move 
your tongue and lips freely. 

Rule 3. — Be careful to give the vowels their full, proper sound, and 
articulate the consonants distinctly. 

Rule 4. — Pronounce each syllable distinctly; and avoid blending 
the termination of one word with the beginning of another. 

Rule 5. — Avoid speaking too fast, or too slow, or in an irregular 
manner, first slow, and then fast, or vice versa. By speaking 
fast, you will be apt to miss or half pronounce, and miscall 
some words, and stammer through a sentence, so that your 
hearers will find it difficult to understand what you are re- 
citing. Recite no faster than you would speak ordinarily. 

Rule 6. — If the subject be animated and lively, you will recite it 
much faster than you would one that is grave and pathetic. 

Rule 7. — Be careful to emphasize properly the more important 
words; otherwise you will fail to convey the true meaning of 
the subject. 

Rule 8. — Recite as if you were expressing your own thoughts and 
feelings; and this you should do in such a manner as to 
make yourself readily understood. 

Rule 9. — In previously reading over the piece you have to recite, or 
in committing it to memory, notice the pauses or stops. 
They indicate the sense and relation of words. At every 
pause, therefore, the voice should be suspended sufficient 
time to mark the sense, and to take breath, so as not to destroy 
the sense by being obliged to make pauses wnere none are 
required. 

Rule 10. — Let your gestures correspond with the nature of the sub- 
ject ; let them be under-done rather that over-done. — Prac- 
tice privately as much as possible, 



THE AMERICAN 

TEMPERANCE SPEAKER, 

2sTo. 1. 



The Power of Alcohol. 
Intoxicating liquor is deceptive in its nature, and 
it seems sometimes as if Satan himself had no power 
on earth that is doing his destroying work so effect- 
ually as this. We might almost fancy him seated 
upon his high and burning throne in Pandemonium, 
crowned with a circlet of everlasting fire, calling 
around him his satellites, to show their respective 
claims for pre-eminence by the power one possessed 
more than another to bring men to that burning lake. 
We may imagine Mammon, the meanest of all the 
gods, standing up and saying, " Send me : I can send 
men from their homes across the burning desert, or 
the trackless ocean, to fight and dig in the earth for 
yellow dust, and to harden their hearts that the cry 
of the widow and the fatherless shall be unheard. I 
will so stop up every avenue to human affection, that 
my victims shall stand as if made of the metal they 
love, and when the cold fingers of Death are feeling for 
their heart-strings, they shall clutch closer and closer 
to their hearts the bag of yellow dust, which is the 
only god they ever worshipped." Belial, filthiest of 
all the gods, next proclaims his power. Then the 
Destroyer asserts his claim : he holds war, pestilence, 
and famine in his hand, and makes men whose trade 
it is to deface God's image, and rank themselves 
in hostile array, and hurry each other, shrieking, 



8 THE POWER OF ALCOHOL. 

unshrived, into another world. While all is silent, 
we may suppose a mighty rumbling sound, at which 
all hell quakes ; and far in the distance is seen, borne 
upon the fiery tide, a monstrous being— his hair 
snakes, all matted with blood, his face besmeared 
with gore. He rises half his length, and the waves, 
dashing against his breast, fall back in a shower of 
fire. " Who art thou ? " "I am an earth-born spirit ; 
I heard your proclamation, and am come. Send 
me : I will turn the hand of the father against the 
mother, the mother against the child ; the husband 
against his wife, the wife against her husband ; the 
young man, in the pride of manliness, I will wrap in 
my cerement and wither him ; the fair young girl I 
will make such a thing that the vilest wretch shall 
shrink from her in disgust. I will do more. I will 
so deceive them that the mother shall know that I 
destroyed her first-born, and yet give to me her 
second. The father shall know that I destroyed the 
pride of his hope, and yet lift the deadly draught to 
the lips of the second. Governors shall know how 
I have sapped the roots of States, and yet spread 
over me the robe of their protection. Legislators 
shall know the crime and misery I cause, but shall 
still shield and encourage me. In heathen lands I 
shall be called fire-water, spirit of the devil ; but in 
Christendom, men shall call me 'a good creature of 
God/ " All hell resounds with a shout, and Satan ex- 
claims, u Come up hither, and take a seat on the 
throne, till we hear thy name." As he mounts to the 
seat, the spirit says aloud, " My name is Alcohol ! " 
and the name shall be shouted in every part of hell, 
and the cry be raised of, " Go forth, and the bless- 
ing of the PIT go with thee!" 

J. B. GOUGH. 



THE LANDLORD. 

The Landlord. 

What a crafty man the landlord is, 

With his plump and smiling face ; 
How he chats, and smirks, and struts about 

With all becoming grace ; 
He welcomes you with his blandest words, 

And gives you a knowing wink, 
As he hastens to his well stored bar 

To fetch you the poisonous drink. 

How briskly he pokes the waning fire, 

And rubs his flabby white hands ; 
Or hums a tune of a merry sort, 

Or cracks a joke as he stands ; 
How willing he is to tell the news, 

Or an argument to start ; 
And should you beg him a song to sing, 

He'll do it " with all his heart." 

So long as the drink is passing free, 

The landlord's a happy man ; 
He cares not a jot for your wife at home, 

Or your little ones so wan ; 
He cares not though the money you spend 

Is the last that you have got ; 
When it is gone you may starve or die, 

For assist you he will not. 

Beneath that smile on the landlord's face 

There lurks a treacherous frown ; 
And deep in his heart a demon dwells, 

A demon of wide renown. 
" Love of Money " is the demon's name, 

And the landlord knows right well, 
For worldly gain and a life of ease 

His soul to Satan he'll sell. 



IO THE ANGEL S VISIT. 

I would not cherish the landlord's thoughts 

For all that the world might give; 
Rather would I in a workhouse die, 

Than a wealthy landlord live ; 
His money is but the price of blood, 

And a curse 'twill surely bring — 
A curse far worse than the curse of man, 

For aye to his soul 'twill cling ! 



The Angel's Visit. 

Upon a bed a woman lay, 

With bloated face and tainted breath ; 
And by her side an infant slept, 

As calm and peaceful as in death. 

The woman tossed in agony, 

For sin oppressed her guilty soul; 

Though oft in drink she sought relief, 
No sleep her restless eyes control. 

An angel form, enrobed in white, 

From heaven's bright portals quickly sped, 
And entering that cottage home, 

Stood by the sleeping infant's bed. 

Unseen he gazed with pitying eye 
Upon that mother's features wild, 

Then slowly turning from the sight, 
He looked upon the babe and smiled. 

O shining one ! why leave your home 
Of glory and transcending bliss ? 

Why pass the pearly gates of heaven, 
To gaze upon a scene like this ? 



THE ANGELS VISIT. II 

Come ye as messenger of love, 

To ease the erring mother's smart ? 

Come ye to whisper words of peace 
To her poor sin-tormented heart? 

See, low the shining one bends o'er 
That tender, spotless, fragile form, 

And whispers softly in its ear : 

" I come to take thee from the storm, 

" This earth is all unworthy thee ; 

Thy mother's sin shall ne'er be thine ; 
Come, haste away, thou fragile flower, 
To joy and happiness divine. 

" Here perfect bliss thou canst not taste, 
For happiness is mixed with woe ; 
There thou shalt drink celestial streams 
Which from God's throne in richness flow. 

" Here storms and tempests fly around, 
And darkness often veils the way ; 
There all is calm, and peace, and joy, 
With not a cloud to mar the day. 

" Come then, sweet babe, nor linger here ; 

The gates of heaven are open now ; 

And white-robed cherubs wait to place 

A dazzling crown upon thy brow." 

The angel ceased, and plumed his wings, 
Then quickly through the air he sped ; 

And when that mother turned to look, 
Behold, her infant babe was dead ! 



12 I DRINK WATER. 

I Drink Water. 

[This piece may be said by either girl or boy by 
changing the words in last verse.] 

" I DRIN& water/' chirped a little bird, 
" It gives me strength of wing ; 
And when in the sky I'm mounting high 
Aloud its praise I sing." 

" I drink water/' said the busy bee, 

As it went humming by ; 
" From the little well in the heather-bell 

I get a good supply." 

" I drink water," said the squirrel gay ; 
" I love the brooklet's flow ; 
And when I have drunk and washed my face, 
A-hunting nuts I go." 

" I drink water," said the pretty flower ; 

II It comes in sparkling dew ; 

And when I am weak with the summer heat 
My strength it does renew." 

" I drink water," said the giant oak, 
" Or strong I should not be ;" 
And echoing notes on the calm air float 
From every bush and tree. 

" I drink water," said the browsing cow ; 
And lambkins at their play 
Skip here and there, and wond'ring stare, 
As the horse gives forth its neigh. 

" I drink water," said a little boy ; 
That little boy am I ; 
And I hope I shall through all my life 
A water-drinker be. 



TEMPERANCE AND RELIGION, 13 

Temperance and Religion. 

A DIALOGUE FOR TWO BOYS. 

Walter. Ah, Tom ! how are you ? It is a long 
time since we met before. (Shake hands.) Which 
way are you going ? 

Tom. I am going to church to hear a sermon ; will 
you go with me ? 

W. No, thank you, Tom, 1 am on my way to our 
Band of Hope meeting. I am not over partial to 
hearing too many sermons. I think twice on a Sun- 
day, and once in the week nights, quite sufficient for 
sermons. 

T. I am sorry to hear you speak so lightly about 
the house of God, Walter. I am afraid you have not 
yet experienced that new birth which Christ declares 
we must all experience before we can get to heaven. 

W. Well, I trust in that you are mistaken, Tom. I 
am trying to do all I can to persuade drunkards to 
be teetotal, and to induce young people never to 
taste intoxicating drinks, and I think that is a good 
work. 

T. No doubt it is a good work in itself. But I 
am afraid many teetotalers put their teetotalism in 
place of religion. They take a good step when they 
sign the pledge, but there they stop, and think their 
teetotalism will save them ; whereas, they are as far 
from heaven as they were before. 

W. No, no, Tom. Don't tell me that; it is op- 
posed to common reason. 

T. But, my dear friend, I can prove it from the 
Bible. The man who is ready for heaven is he who 
has believed on the Lord Jesus Christ to the saving- 
of his soul. The words of Christ are : " He that 
believeth shall be saved ; he that believeth not shall 



14 TEMPERANCE AND RELIGION. 

be damned. " Now you don't mean to tell me that 
when a man signs the temperance pledge, that act 
makes him a Christian. 

W. No ; I am not so stupid as to think that. 

T. Then you must acknowledge that religion is 
before teetotalism, and if you could make men relig- 
ious you would not require either pledges or tem- 
perance meetings. 

W. No, Tom ; while acknowledging that religion 
is before teetotalism, I deny your last assertion 
altogether, I am convinced that so long as intoxicat- 
ing drinks are publicly offered for sale, so long as 
they are used in our homes — so long will the tem- 
perance advocate be required. Until Christians 
become teetotalers, religion will not keep all of them 
from falling victims to this subtle snare of Satan. I 
grant you religion is the one thing needful ; but how 
many churches have been robbed of their ministers 
and members, how many Sabbath-schools have had 
their most hopeful youth blighted and destroyed by 
this foul destroyer ? I deny that religion will keep 
men from falling if they tamper with drink. 

T. But I am acquainted with many good and pious 
men who are not teetotal. 

W. That may be true. I suppose they take a little 
wine for their stomach's sake, and their often in- 
firmities ! But let me tell you, Tom, I think it a fear- 
ful thing for a man professing Christianity to take 
intoxicating drinks, even though he take them in 
strict moderation, while so many thousands perish 
yearly — each one having a soul as precious as his 
own. It seems to me a poor religion which will not 
induce a man to u deny himself " of that which has 
been proved beyond all doubt not only to do a 
man no good, but to be the source of much physical 



TEMPERANCE AND RELIGION. 15 

injury — even when taken in moderation. The Apostle 
Paul was not a man of this kind, for he says, " I will 
neither eat flesh, nor drink wine, nor anything where- 
by my brother is caused to sin." 

T. That's quite true, Walter. 

W. Throughout all Scripture we are warned of 
the danger of drink. "Wine is a mocker/' says 
the wise man, "and whoso is deceived thereby 
is not wise." Look at the fearful sin Lot committed 
through partaking of wine. See how Herod, flushed 
with wine, granted a request, and seared his heart 
with the murder of John the Baptist. O Tom ! I 
think if all Christians would open their eyes, they 
would for ever set themselves against intoxicating 
drink. 

T. Yes, Walter, those were fearful examples you 
name; you seem to possess a good knowledge of 
Scripture on this subject. 

W. If you had suffered through drink as I have, 
Tom, you would feel deeply about it. You know my 
father was once a good man ; he occupied the pulpit, 
and was well received as a preacher wherever he 
went. But alas ! he was not a teetotaler— and at 
length he was hurled from his high position in dis- 
grace. But it pains me to think about it. 

T. Yes, I heard all about it, and felt very sorry, 
for I know he was once a good man. 

W. Yes, Tom, and what he has become, every 
professing Christian may be, if they drink intoxicat- 
ing drinks. I hope you are convinced there is danger 
even for Christians. 

T. I am afraid I have been looking at the tempe- 
rance question in a wrong light. I have not been a 
teetotaler up to the present, nor given the subject 
that serious consideration I ought to have done ; but 



1 6 TEMPERANCE AND RELIGION. 

1 now see how necessary it is both for personal 
safety, and as an example to others. 

W. I am glad to hear you speak thus. Do not for 
a moment think that an enlightened teetotaler puts 
his religion second to his teetotalism. No, no ; this 
cannot be ; but just as Christ, when about to raise 
Lazarus from the tomb, told the Jews to roll away 
the stone, in order that His voice might reach the 
dead man, so are we trying to roll away the black 
stone of intemperance from the heart of the drunk- 
ard, so that when sober and in his right mind we 
may point him to the Lamb of God which taketh 
away the sins of the world. 

T. True ; I see your object now ; and I see, also, 
you are not so careless about divine things as you 
appeared to me at first to be. I must crave your par- 
don for misjudging you. 

W. I trust, my dear friend, I am endeavoring to 
"show my faith by my works." God has in some 
measure blessed my feeble efforts in the good cause, 
and I hope you will now join with me in pulling 
down this stronghold of Satan. 

T. I will, Walter. I have been blind in my re- 
ligion ; I thank you for our conversation, and must 
now say good-bye. 

W. Good-bye, Tom. (Exit.) 



BEWARE ! If 



Beware ! 

Oh ! ye who sip the ruddy wine, 
Though like a ruby it may shine, 

Beware ! 
Within the sparkling cup there lies 
Unnumbered tears, and groans, and sighs, 
The gnawing worm that never dies, 

Beware ! 



Though great men of its virtues name, 
And poets sing aloud its fame, 

Beware ! 
Oh, touch it not ! Its ruddy glare 
Is but the lurking tempter's snare 
To lead thee on to dark despair, 

Beware ! 

Many, alas ! have quaffed the bowl, 
And soon have felt its dread control, 

Beware ! 
Ah ! soon the treacherous, poisoned dart 
Has pierced them to the very heart, 
And left a never-ceasing smart, 

Beware ! 

To festive board 'tis often brought, 
To waken mirth 'tis often sought, 

Beware ! 
At first it tingles through the vein ; 
It lights the eye, and spurs the brain ; 
At last it leaves a throbbing pain, 

Beware ! 



l8 A GLASS OF COLD WATER. 

Many a youth, with future bright, 
Has drunk the cup and felt its blight, 

Beware ! 
It spares not youth or tottering age, 
The thoughtless lad or hoary sage ; 
With all a deadly strife 'twill wage, 

Beware ! 

The wise man's caution do thou take, 
The ruddy, sparkling wine forsake, 

Beware ! 
Pure water drink if thou wouldst be 
In life unfettered, pure, and free, 
Happy through all eternity, 

Beware ! 



A Glass of Cold Water. 
Where is the liquor which God the eternal brews 
for all His children ? Not in the simmering still, 
over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, and 
surrounded with the stench of sickening odors and 
rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven pre- 
pare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. 
But in the green glade and grassy dell, where the 
red deer wanders and the child loves to play, there 
God brews it. And down, low down in the deepest 
valleys, where the fountains murmur and rills sing ; 
and high upon the tall mountain tops, where the 
naked granite glitters like gold in the sun ; where 
the storm-cloud broods and the thunder-storms crash ; 
and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the 
hurricane howls music and the big waves roar ; the 
chorus swelling the march of God ; there He brews 



don't drink, boys. 19 

it — that beverage of life and health-giving water. 
And everywhere it is a thing of beauty, gleaming in 
the dewdrop, singing in the summer rain, shining in 
the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem turned to living 
jewels, spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, 
or a white gauze round the midnight moon. 

Sporting in the cataract, sleeping in the glacier, 
dancing in the hail-shower, folding its bright snow 
curtains softly about the wintry world, and weaving 
the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, 
whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is 
the sunbeam of heaven, all checkered over with 
celestial flowers by the mystic hand of refraction. 

Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water : 
no poison bubbles on its brink ; its foam brings not 
madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid 
glass ; pale widows and starving orphans weep no 
burning tears in its depths ; no drunken, shrieking 
ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eter- 
nal despair. Speak on, my friends, would you ex- 
change it for the demon's drink, alcohol ? 

J. B. GOUGH. 



Don't Drink, Boys. 

Don't drink, boys, don't drink, 

No matter who you be ; 
When tempted, firmly answer " No I" 

And from the tempter flee. 

Don't drink, boys, don't drink; 

From you the wine cup fling ; 
Beneath its ruddy glow there lurks 

The adder's venom'd sting. 



20 THE LITTLE SOLDIER. 

Don't drink, boys, don't drink ; 

Tis but old Satan's snare 
To lure you from the way that's right, 

To sadness and despair. 

Don't drink, boys, don't drink ; 

Though some men laud the bowl ; 
'Twill soon destroy your blooming health, 

And cloud your youthful souL 

Don't drink, boys, don't drink ; 

If you would manly grow, 
Pass by the haunts where drink is sold, 

And strong men are made low. 

Don't drink, boys, don't drink ; 

'Twere better you should die 
While innocence dwells in your heart, 

Than in such bondage lie. 

Don't drink, boys, don't drinK ; 

Oh, from it turn away ! 
And for the poor, deluded sot 

Unto your Maker pray. 



The Little Soldier. 

I AM a little soldier, 

And though but six years old, 
Within my little breast there beats 

A heart as true as gold. 



THE LITTLE SOLDIER. 21 

I have no gun or bay'net, 

Nor sword down by my side ; 
Nor yet have I a prancing horse 

On which to battle ride. 

I have no balls or powder, 

And yet, I'm proud to say, 
The wicked foe I battle with 

Ere long I mean to slay. 

The army I belong to 

Are all as brave as I, 
And sooner than they'd conouered be 

Will fight until they die. 

Our Leader, General Temp'rance, 

Oft cheers us as we go, 
And tells us, if but true to him, 

We're sure to slay the foe. 

Our enemy is stronger 

Than some of you would think; 
He has a dozen different names, 

But his real name is Drink. 

He laughs to see such youngsters 

March up and down so grand ; 
But never mind, he soon will find 

How bravely we can stand. 

Now won't you join our army ? 

Come, sign the pledge to-night ; 
We'll gladly put you through the drill, 

And teach you how to fight ! 



Z2 THE WIFE S MISTAKE. 

The "Wife's Mistake. 

CHARACTERS. 

George A carpenter I Mr. Loveall George's employer 

Sarah. George's wife | Mrs. Loveall.. The wife of Mr. Loveall 

Miss Lydia. . . .President of the Women's Rights Club. 

SCENE : Interior of a cottage. Sarah, sitting at a table. 

Sarah. How foolish young women are to get mar- 
ried ! They think if they can only get a husband 
and a house of their own they'll be the happiest 
beings in the world. Happy, indeed ! Much happi- 
ness there is in being a man's drudge ! There may 
be some happiness when a woman gets a man with 
plenty of money, and she can pay servants to do the 
work; but when they're like me, have to do every- 
thing, its enough to drive any woman crazy. What 
with washing, cleaning, baking, mending, and one 
thing and another, 1 haven't a minute to call my own. 
Mrs. Goosberry has said a dozen times, " Do, my 
dear Sarah, come up and spend an afternoon with 
me," but Mrs. Goosberry doesn't know what I have 
to do. She's got a husband of the right sort — a man 
— and no mistake. He thinks nothing of going down 
on his knees and washing the floor, or cleaning the 
stove, or doing something to help his wife ; and on a 
Sunday morning she always goes to church, for the 
good man can peel the potatoes, cook the meat, and 
make the beds as well as his wife, and he takes a 
pleasure in doing it. But as for my husband, if he 
wants a button stitched on he says, " Here, Sarah, 
sew this on." It's " Do this, Sarah, do that, Sarah," 
until I'm completely tired out. But here he comes. 
Enter George, throwing his hat on a chair, and saying — 

Well, Sarah, I'm here again, you see, tired, as 
usual. We've had a heavy job to-day, and no mis- 
take. 



THE WIFE S MISTAKE. 23 

Sarah. Well, for my part, I can't understand how 
a man can be so tired ; if he'd a woman's work to do 
he'd find it out. I wish I was a man. 

George (laughing). Ah, ah, ah ! bad tempered 
again, Sarah ; I wish you would get over that grum- 
bling habit. You see although I'm as tired as tired 
can be, I can laugh over it. 

Sarah. Aye, that shows how tired you are. And 
as to grumbling, I should like to know who is 
grumbling. Its always the way with you men. If a 
woman tells you she's tired, she's grumbling. Here 
I've been slaving and slushing all day, and then be- 
cause I happen to say a word, I'm grumbling. 

George. Well, I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings, 
but— 

Sarah. Sorry, indeed ! I dare say you are sorry. A 
great deal of sorrow you have for your wife. Don't 
make fun of me in that way, sir, because if you do 
you'll find yourself in the wrong shop. I'm not a 
child to be made fun of. The greatest pity is that 
I'm the slave of any man. 

George (angrily). Well, well, that'll do. Let's have 
no more of that sort of talk, because, wife, I won't 
stand it. Is supper ready ? 

Sarah. Yes, there you are, tyrannical as ever. 
When I want to defend myself, you put me down in 
that way. I can't speak a word in my own defence, 
but you get angry, and snap at me like a dog. 

George. Is supper ready, I say ? 

Sarah. It isn't ready. A woman can't do every- 
thing. If you was like Mr. Goosberry, you wouldn't 
ask, but you'd begin and get it ready. He always 
does, and more than that, his wife told me yesterday 
that he gets up first of a morning, lights the fire, and 
takes her a cup of tea to bed before he leaves the 



24 THE WIFE ? S xMISTAKE. 

house. He's something like a husband, he is. I 
could get along with a man of that kind, who knows 
how to respect a woman's feelings — 

George. Aye, I dare say a spooney of that sort 
would just suit you ; but let me tell you, wife, if he's 
a gooseberry, I'm not. I'm not going to work for 
the money, and do the housework too. 

Sarah. There you are — work for the money — it's 
always the bit of paltry money you fling at me. 
Don't I work, I should like to know; I work as hard 
as you, any day, and it's not much I eat, either. I 
could soon get a situation, and earn money for my- 
self—and then I shouldn't have it flung at me so 
often— who earns the money? 

George. You'd better get a situation, wife ; the 
sooner the better if you are going to carry on in this 
way. 

Sarah, Yes, that's just what you'd like me to do. 
I can see through it all. You want to get rid of 
me, after I've done for you so long, and kept things 
tidy and comfortable. But I'll not go — I'll stay to 
spite you. How can you find in your heart to tell 
me to go and get a situation ! It's a shame, and it 
just shows how men respect their wives. 

George. Well, wife, I'm sick and tired of this. 
Here I've been waiting for supper all this time, and 
instead of getting it ready you give me one of your 
usual fits of bad temper. I'm not a hard man ; I can 
feel for you in your household difficulties, and often 
wish I could earn more money so that you could 
have a girl to help you. But I can't help you myself 
— at least not in the way you seem to think I ought 
to do. The man who will wash the floor, make the 
beds, and so on, is made of different stuff from me ; 
and I think the woman that expects her husband to 



THE WIFE'S MISTAKE. 25 

do these things must have a very watery idea of what 
a man is. 

Sarah. Don't say another word. You always talk 
in that way. It's always me that's wrong. Whatever 
I say, I never get any satisfaction — but I don't 
believe you feel for me. 

George. Well, I'm sorry, wife, to hear you say so, 
and as you don't seem inclined to get supper ready 
or make yourself agreeable, I'll go where I can be 
comfortable. I've had to go many a time lately be- 
cause of your bad temper. Perhaps when I come 
back you'll be better. (Exit George, in a temper.) 

Sarah. There he is, gone away to the " Red Bull " 
in a tantrum, just because I said I was tired. It's not 
because supper is not ready he goes there ; it's that 
impudent landlady with her curls, and ribbons, and 
smiles, that he goes to look at. He's getting tired 
of both me and my company, and I think the sooner 
1 leave him the better. It's enough to break my 
heart, it is, to think that after I've done so much for 
him, he should — like her — better — than me (bursts 
into tears). 

Enter Miss Lydia Mandrake, dressed in the orthodox 
u Woman s Rights " style, and carrying a large ging- 
ham umbrella under her arm. 

Miss Lydia (looking with contemptuous pity on 
Sarah). What, shedding tears again, Sarah ! No 
need to tell me why — no need at all. If a woman 
sheds tears there's sure to be a brutish tyrant of a 
man at the bottom of it. The lords of creation like 
lording it over defenceless women. The wonder to 
me is why women stand it. 

Sarah. I won't stand it any longer, Miss Lydia. 

Miss Lydia. I should think you won't, Sarah ; I 



THE WIFE'S MISTAKE. 



should think you won't. You've been man's slave 
long enough. Ah ! (brandishing her umbrella) if I 
had all the men here I'd break every bone in my um- 
brella, that I would. To think that woman should 
be the slave of man ! To think that she should be so 
debased and downtrodden as to wash, and clean, and 
bake, and mend, and stitch buttons on, and attend to 
the ungrateful animal called man. Oh ! but we'll 
alter this kind of thing by and by, Sarah. We'll pass 
laws which shall emancipate our downtrodden sex, 
and then — then the brutish male shall feel the gentle 
sway of the female ; then shall our tyrants fall down 
on their knees and scrub the floors, clean the grates, 
wash the clothes, turn the mangle ; then we'll show 
them who shall light the fire, make the beds, and run 
the errands. That will be glorious ! 

Sarah. Did you never think of getting married, 
Miss Lydia? 

Miss Lydia. Married, Sarah ! married, did you say ? 
Bound in the chains of slavery to a man ! Never, 
never! I've had many offers; the deceitful things 
have tried to draw me into their embrace, but I've 
resisted. They brushed their vile hair, combed out 
their whiskers, twisted their moustaches, decked 
themselves out in their dandyish attire, and, scented 
like a druggist shop, came and fell on their knees, 
told me how beautiful I was (they didn't need, Sarah, 
for I always knew that), and asked me to be their 
wife. Did I yield (brandishing her umbrella) ? 
Never, never ! I despised them, I spurned them, I 
bid them begone ! 

Sarah. Oh ! if I'd only done that, Miss Lydia. 

Miss Lydia. Yes, if you had, Sarah, you would 
have been free. Oh, what fools most women are ! 
But I'm forgetting my errand. I came to ask you to 



THE WIFE'S MISTAKE. 27 

become a member of our " Women's Rights Club." 
We are going to hold a meeting next week, and 
draw up rules and regulations for the guidance of 
those poor women who are in the abject condition 
of yourself, Sarah. Will you join us ? 

Sarah. Yes, Miss Lydia, I think I will. 

Miss Lydia. You think you will ! There you are. 
I suppose you must ask your husband first ! You 
must go down on your knees, and say, " Please, hus- 
band, may 1 join the Women's Rights Club ?" You 
married women have no will of your own. Be a 
woman, Sarah, and say at once you'll join the club. 

Sarah. Well, I'll promise you, Miss Lydia. 

Miss Lydia. That's right, Sarah. Now I'll leave 
you. Good evening. (Miss Lydia departs, waving 
her umbrella.) 

Sarah. I'm not sure whether I have done right in 
telling Miss Lydia I'll join the club. I shouldn't like 
George to know, at any rate ; for he'd be angry, and 
no mistake. I wish he would be more agreeable, 
and not go to the " Red Bull " so much. He's a good 
husband after all, and not quite so bad as Miss Lydia 
would make him out. No, no ; I couldn't do without 
him — that I couldn't. O dear ! what must I do, for 
I feel very miserable. (Sarah again weeps. A knock 
at the door.) O dear, dear! who can this be? 
Surely it can't be Miss Lydia again ; I don't want to 
see her. Come in. 

Enter Mrs. Loveall, neatly attired, and smiling. 

Mrs. Loveall. Ah, my dear, you are weeping. 
What is the matter? Nothing serious, I hope. 

Sarah. Oh ! I feel so miserable, ma'am. 

Mrs. Loveall. Why miserable, my dear? Tell me; 
perhaps I may be able to comfort you a little. 



2 8 THE WIFE S MISTAKE. 

Sarah. It's George, ma'am ; he's gone out angry, 
and I think he's gone to drink at the " Red Bull." 

Mrs. Loveall. But why did he go, Sarah ? George, 
I am sure, is not a drunken man, nor does he love 
the public house. My husband was only saying to- 
day what a clever, steady, hard-working man he is — 
a man who is thoughtful and intelligent, and who 
will soon rise to a better position than he now holds. 
There must be some cause, my dear, for his going to 
the " Red Bull." 

Sarah. Well, ma'am, to speak the truth, supper 
wasn't ready, and I was a little vexed, for I had been 
working hard and was worried with family matters. 

Mrs. Loveall. Ah, I see, my dear ; you both got a 
little ruffled, and George, who I am sure is not un- 
reasonable, went out to cool his temper, and allow 
yours to cool as well. Did he get his supper before 
he went ? 

Sarah. No, ma'am, I didn't get it ready for him. 

Mrs. Loveall. Ah, Sarah, my dear, that was very 
wrong. You should never neglect to make your 
husband comfortable. Remember he has plenty of 
trouble and hard work ; the life of a working man is 
not so easy that he can afford to lose the comforts of 
home. His home ought to be the spot where he can 
find happiness and rest ; and I am sure if men's wives 
would only do their best to make themselves and 
their homes attractive, they would not go so often to 
the bar room. 

Sarah. Well, ma'am, I think you are right. I don't 
think George would. It's all my fault that he went 
out to-night. 

Mrs. Loveall. Ah, Pm glad to hear you say that, 
my dear. You will try and do better in the future, 
won't you ? 



THE WIFE S MISTAKE. 



29 



Sarah. Yes, ma'am, I will, if George will only for- 
give me. (The door opens, and George and Mr. 
Loveall enter softly .) I wish he'd come, Fd ask him — • 

George (grasping his wife's hand). Forgive you, 
Sarah, of course I will. It was my fault as much as 
yours that we had the little brush to-night. I was 
tired and easily ruffled, and I didn't perhaps consider 
how much work you had to do at home. But Fve 
not been to the " Red Bull." I met Mr. Loveall, and 
he saw I was in trouble, and he took me to his house, 
and there, somehow, his good wife got my trouble 
out of me, and she ran over to have a chat with you ; 
and I see she's made it all right. 

Mr. Loveall. Yes, George, my wife is as good as 
her name ; she loves all, and is ever ready to make 
peace. She wasn't always so ; but you see she found 
out that if a woman wishes to be happy she must 
make her husband happy. Nothing like love at home ; 
it's the best thing in the world, my friends. And now, 
George, I'll tell you what I am going to do. My 
foreman has told me to-day that he's accepted a situa- 
tion abroad, and I'll put you in his place ; and with 
the extra wages you will get you can afford to let your 
wife have a girl to help her in her household work. 

George. Oh ! thank you, sir ; thank you very 
much. I'm sure I'll try and do my duty. 

Mr. Loveall. I've no doubt of that George. Fve 
been watching you a long time, and I know your 
value. There, my dear (turning to his wife), let us 
go and leave these two to enjoy their new-found 
happiness. 
The door opens, and Miss Lydia, with umbrella in hand, 

enters. 

Miss Lydia (in a loud screeching voice). The 
meeting begins, Sarah — 



3° 



IS IT TRUE > 



Sarah. Oh, go away, Miss Lydia. I sha'n't come to 
your meetings. My husband is a good, dear man, 
and I'm sorry I ever listened to your wicked insinua- 
tions. 

Miss Lydia (raising her hands and umbrella in 
astonishment). What ! are you turning coward ? Are 
you going to be a slave all your life ? Are you going 
to wash, and clean, and bake, and turn the mangle, 
when I told you we'd make the men do these things ? 
Oh, what a foolish woman ! Good night, Sarah ; good 
night, Sarah, I say, and much joy may you have 
with the tyrants called men. (Depart Miss Lydia, 
flourishing her umbrella.) 
All burst out laughing, when George begins to sing, the 

others joining in. 

Is it True ? 

Boys and girls, say, is it true 
Many snares are laid for you ? 
Of a surety can it be 
Traps are set for you and me ? 

Yes, alas ! on every hand 
Great imposing temples stand, 
And the gods who dwell within 
Woo us to their haunts of sin. 

Flaming lights and trappings gay ; 
Organs, merry music play ; 
Song and dance are daily there ; 
Every art to prove a snare. 

These are baits to lure us in, 
That we may a course begin 
Which will lead us to resign 
Health and peace on Bacchus' shrine. 



FAREWELL TO THE BOTTLE. 3 1 

All such places ever shun ; 
For loose habits once begun 
Will from bad to worse soon lead, 
And the end be sad indeed. 

Let your drink be water bright ; 
This will ne'er your pleasures blight, 
But increase your every joy, 
And give peace without alloy. 



Farewell to the Bottle. 

[To be said slowly, distinctly, and with accom- 
panying action. An empty bottle to stand on a 
table, the person reciting to address it. When near 
the close it will be seen the bottle is to be dashed to 
the floor.] 

Stand there, and let me gaze at thee once more, 

Ere in my wrath I hurl thee to the floor 

And shatter thee ; for thou to me hast been 

A tempter and a curse — a false siren — 

Who led me by thy treacherous song and smile 

To wretchedness and misery, and to actions vile. 

When first I put thee to my youthful lip. 
And took from thee a gentle, modest sip, 
The liquid that thou gav'st me fired my vein, 
And made my heart to dance with joy again , 
It filled my brain with fancies rosy-hued, 
And all along my pathway flowerets strewed ; 
Till I extolled thee as some magic power 
Made by the gods to brighten man's dark hour — 
To drive away the sadness from his heart, 
And ease the guilty conscience of its smart; 
So from thy store I quaffed the nectar bright, 
Till o'er my mind there fell a deadly blight. 



3* 



FAREWELL TO THE BOTTLE. 



The rosy visions which at first uprose 

Dissolved in blotches on my face and nose ; 

My lips were cracked, my eyeballs soon were blurred, 

My stomach out of order, and my tongue thick 

furred ; 
My head was racked with sharp and horrid pain ; 
And some foul demon seemed to clutch my brain ; 
My hands were palsied, and my eyes grew dim, 
And aches and pains were felt in every limb. 
But though I saw the horrors of my lot, 
And knew that I was now a drivelling sot, 
Such was thy potent power, I lost control, 
And gave to thee my body and my soul. 

With tears and sighs my friends entreated me 
To break thy fetters and be rid of thee, 
But from their words in rage I turned away, 
And deeper quaffed thy poison day by day ; 
Till reason trembled on its shattered throne, 
And demons jeered and mocked my piercing groan, 
And I was borne, fast bound in every limb — 
To where the massive walls stand high and grim, 
To gloomy mad-house, reared for such as those 
Who day and night with fiends like thee carouse: 
There, like some ship by cruel billows tossed, 
I suffered all the torments of the lost ! 

Thank God, my reason soon her seat regained, 
And now from thy false snares I am reclaimed ; 
No more thy poison to my lips shall go, 
No more thy venom through my veins shall flow. 
I hate thee, bottle, and my hate shall last, 
And from me thus thy hated presence cast ; 
Begone ! for ever shattered mayest thou be 
Unto all others, as thou art to me ! 



A MOURNFUL STORY. 33 

A Mournful Story. 

I SAT me in my chair one night : 

The fire was all aglow, 
And strong the wind went whistling by, 

And thickly fell the snow. 

So cozy, snug, and warm was I, 

I quickly fell asleep ; 
And visions sad flit through my brain, 

Which fairly made me weep. 

I dreamed of those poor wretches who 
No home or friends could claim ; 

Of those cast out upon the world 
To live by crime and shame. 

I dreamed of those by drink enslaved, 

Poor victims of the bowl, 
And as I dreamed a pang of grief 

Pierced to my very soul. 

In dungeons dark, in madhouse high, 

How many wretches lay ; 
For such as these what could I do 

But in my anguish pray ? 

The wind went whistling by the door, 

And sent a rapid stream 
Of chilling air right past my chair — 

Which waked me from my dream. 

Then was I conscious of a sound 

Of rapping at my door ; 
I started up in nervous dread, 

And stood upon the floor. 



34 A MOURNFUL STORY. 

? Twas not a brisk and merry rap — 

(No dread of such had I), 
It seemed as though each rat-tat was 

Accompanied by a sigh. 

I mustered courage, and at length 
With care undid the door ; 

Just then a mighty gust of wind 
Set up a dismal roar, 

And quickly quenched the candle light 

I carried in my hand, 
Which caused me such a fearful fright, 

I scarce knew how to stand. 

Again the rapping sound I heard ; 

Whatever could it be ? 
I through the keyhole slyly peeped, 

But nothing could I see. 

Then once again I ope'd the door, 
And peered into the night, 

And saw a ragged urchin stood 
Reflected in the light. 

Poor little waif ! his feet were bare, 
His clothes were very old ; 

How could he bear the chilling wind 
Which blew so bitter cold ? 

The child of some poor, wretched sot, 

Neglected and forlorn ! 
And as I thought upon his lot 

My heart with grief was torn. 



THE WRECK. 



35 



" Poor boy P I said, " I pity thee ; 

Pray, wilt thou tell to me 
The story of thy wretched life, 

That I may succor thee ? 

" Pray tell me how thy father died, 

And does thy mother drink ?" 
I thought I saw the urchin's eyes 

Give forth a curious blink : 

He tried to speak ; his little mouth 

Was twisted all awry ; 
I thought I saw the tear drops gleam. 

And heard a heavy sigh. 

This long suspense I could not bear 

(My sympathies are deep) ; 
I felt as though I should have burst — 

But still I could not weep. 

" Come, child, be quick] — I wait thy tale !" 

Oh, sad indeed my heart! — 
The boy looked up and loudly cried— 

" Done yo' want any mussels, a penny a 
quart ?" 



The Wreck. 

A GALLANT ship sailed from the port, 
Full spread was every sail ; 

And ne'er a finer craft was seen 
To scud before the gale. 

The captain paced the polished deck ; 

A sturdy man was he 
As ever took a ship's command 

Across the briny sea. 



$6 THE WRECK. 

The sailors too were brave and true, 
Who knew their duty well ; 

And as the ship sped on its way 
They thrilling yarns would tell — 

Of fearful storms, hair-breadth escapes, 
Of hunger, thirst, and cold ; 

Of shipwrecks on some foreign shore ; 
Of deeds both rare and bold. 

A precious freight the good ship held — 
Five hundred souls and more, 

Besides the bales of merchandise — 
A rich and goodly store. 

On, on she sped right gallantly, 
Her full sails gleaming white 

Beneath the sun's bright rays by day, 
The moon's soft beams by night. 

No storm arose to check her speed, 
But all was calm and bright, 

With just enough of steady breeze 
To keep her course aright. 

She seemed to be a thing of life 
Ploughing the trackless main, 

Anxious to gain the distant port 
That she might rest obtain. 

The passengers, in merry mood, 
Right gaily spent each day 

In dance and mirth and jovial song ; 
Thus passed the time away. 



THE WRECK. 37 

The children romped about the deck, 

Brimful of life and glee ; 
The sailors joined them in their sports, 

And all went merrily. 

" Just two days more," the captain said, 

With all a sailor's pride, 
" And then our gallant little ship 

Will safe at anchor ride. 

" Full twenty years I've crossed the sea, 
To many ports I've been ; 
But ne'er have made a swifter run, 
Or finer weather seen." 

Such pleasant words were loudly cheered 

By passengers and crew ; 
Alas ! the fate that waited them, 

How little then they knew ! 

The glorious day soon pass'd away, 

And from the sky shone bright, 
Like myriad lamps hung out from heaven, 

The twinkling stars of night. 

And while the ship ploughed o'er the deep, 

The passengers below 
All met to spend a merry night, 

Their gratitude to show. 

The captain's praise was loudly sung — ■ 

While he, with beaming face, 
Responded to each flattering toast 

With all becoming grace. 



2& THE WRECK. 

Swiftly the wine went round the board, 

Deeply all present drank ; 
Till one by one, their senses gone, 

Upon the floor they sank. 

The sailors, too, upon the deck, 
Enjoyed their steaming grog ; 

Nor heeded they, o'er all the deep, 
The quickly gathering fog. 

Still on the gallant vessel sped. 

Ah, what a fearful shock ! 
The cry rings out from man at helm, 

" She's struck upon a rock !" 

Up rushed the captain to the deck, 
Followed by shrieks and cries ; 

Madly he casts his gaze around, 
Then scans the threatening skies. 

" We're lost, we're lost !" he faintly said ; 
" Men, women, know your fate : 
See, now your vessel swiftly sinks — 
To save her 'tis too late !" 

E'en while he spoke the battered ship 
With gurgling sound lurched o'er ; 

Then, with her full five hundred souls, 
Went down to rise no more ! 



MY BEAUTIFUL NOSE. 39 



My Beautiful Nose. 

[A nose specially made of pasteboard and colored 
should be worn during the recital of this piece.] 

I ONCE had a delicate nose ; 

An organ of beauty and grace ; 
And everyone said to me then 

How well it adorned my sweet face. 
But now all its beauty has gone, 

Ah ! gone is its rosy-tipped hue ; 
An object of warning it stands, 

With colors of purple and blue. 



When walking along through the town, 

The small boys cry, " Eh, what a nose!" 
The ladies, too, step on one side, 

Afraid of being hurt, I suppose ; 
My friends (how provoking they are) 

While taking a grasp of my hand, 
Look straight at my organ of smell, 

And tell me it's blooming quite grand. 



I'm always the butt of a crowd — 

Or rather, my nose is the butt ; 
One says I have pricked it with pins ; 

Another, Fve daubed it with soot ; 
One says 'tis a ball of hot fire, 

And warns all around of their clothes 
Oh, the anguish I suffer at times, 

Through having a flaming red nose ! 



40 MY BEAUTIFUL NOSE. 

If at home I chance to lie down 

And think I'll just take a short snoose, 
I'm awfully bothered by flies, 

Which think they can perch where they 
And when after many attempts [choose ; 

I manage to drop in a dose, 
I'm suddenly startled to find 

A dozen or so on my nose. 

Fve tried very often to find 

Some remedy out which will hide 
My nose's defects from the crowd, 

But have failed in all I have tried ; 
I've painted it over quite thick ; 

Fve dusted it well with fine flour ; 
But alas ! none of these things availed 

When caught in a storm or a shower. 

You wonder what made my nose red, 

What made its appearance so queer ; 
Ah ! shall I confess the whole truth — 

'Tis drinking vile whiskey and beer ; 
Many years Fve been fond of a glass 

At morning, at noon, and at night ; 
And this is the fruit of it all ; 

Oh, dear, Fm a terrible fright! 

One day a learned doctor I spied, • 

And asked for his skilful advice ; 
He looked at my nose for a while, 

Then turned and was gone in a trice. 
I was wroth at conduct so strange ; 

How foolish I felt no one knows ; 
He might have concocted a pill 

To reduce the size of my nose ! 



THE DRUNKARD. 41 

But 'tis plain as the nose on my face 

(And that is quite plain you will say), 
There's nothing will make me all right, 

But throwing the whiskey away. 
Henceforward my beverage shall be 

The drink which for all freely flows ; 
I hope, when you see me again, 

To have a respectable nose. 



The Drunkard. 

Have you ever seen the drunkard, 

As he reels along the street, 
With his hat all crushed and battered, 

Scarce a shoe upon his feet ; 
Hair uncombed and beard unshaven, 

Coat and trousers splashed and torn ; 
Mumbling, mutt'ring, stumbling, sputt'ring, 

Like a thing of reason shorn ? 

Have you ever seen the drunkard 

Lord it o'er his trembling wife ; 
Heard him threaten, without mercy, 

To crush out her wretched life ; 
Seen him, like a very demon, 

Hurl her senseless to the ground, 
Stamping, swearing, raving, tearing, 

Worse than any savage hound? 

Have you ever seen the drunkard 
When his children cried for bread, 

Madly, fiercely push them from him — 
Give them brutal blows instead ; 



4 2 



THE DRUNKARD. 



Tell them, in a tow'ring passion, 
They must go and beg or steal — 

Frowning, snarling, growling, gnarling, 
Caring nothing for their weal ? 



Have you ever seen the drunkard 

Very early in the morn, 
Sneaking from his wretched dwelling, 

Haggard, trembling, and forlorn, 
Looking like a branded felon, 

As he goes along the street — 
Shuffling, shaking, quailing, aching, 

Dreading any one to meet ? 



Have you ever seen the drunkard 

Lying on a bed of death — 
Heard the fearful lamentations 

Borne upon his tainted breath ; 
Wishing to be free from torments, 

Yet, alas ! afraid to die — 
Groaning, sighing, moaning, crying, 

In his fearful agony ? 

Have you ever helped the drunkard 

To become a sober man ? 
If you have not, from this moment 

Do for him whatever you can. 
He's your brother — though so fallen- 

And his " keeper 5 ' you should be ; 
Talking, coaxing, helping, loving, 

Is the work for you and me. 



THE FATHER'S EXAMPLE. 43 



The Father's Example. 

"I LIKE to be cozy" said Peter Brown, 

As he sat at home one night ; 
The curtains were drawn to keep out the cold, 

And the fire was blazing bright ; 
And he held in his hand a " meerschaum " grand, 

Which he smoked with great delight, 
And close at his side was a glass of wine, 

Which sparkled under the light. 

His little son Tommy, a smart young lad ? 

Was standing beside his knee ; 
He looked at his sire, and smilingly said : 

" How very nice it must be 
To be a big man, and sit in a chair. 

And smoke a pipe so fine ! 
When I am grown up I'll do just like you, 

And drink a good lot of wine." 

" All right, my son Tom/' his father replied, 
As he watched the curling smoke ; 
But Tom's mother was there, with aching heart, 
And with trembling lip she spoke : 
" No, no, my dear boy, you must not say that!" 
And she took him from the room ; 
And the rest of the night, though all seemed right, 
Her bosom was filled with gloom. 

Many years passed away ; and Peter Brown 

Became a trembling old man ; 
His hair was white as the drifted snow, 

His face was wrinkled and wan ; 



44 BAND OF HOPE SPECTACLES. 

And his heart was sad, for his loving wife 
Lay low in the churchyard grave ; 

And his only son — the once happy child — 
Was to drink a fettered slave. 

The old man thought of the days that were past, 

When his home was full of joy, 
When his heart was light, and the future bright 

With hopes of his darling boy. 
Now those hopes were blighted — the ruddy wine 

To this child had proved a snare ; 
And the old man's bosom, though once so light, 

Was filled with darkest despair. 

Not many months passed ere the old man died 

And was laid beside his wife ; 
But not too soon came the angel of death, 

For weary was he of life. 
The day that they carried him to the grave 

His son in a madhouse lay — 
The pipe and the bowl had darkened his soul, 

And stolen his reason away. 



Band of Hope Spectacles. 

A DIALOGUE FOR THREE GIRLS. 

The girls must be in walking costume. They must step 
on to the platform together, and Rose, apparently dis- 
pleased, must begin the dialogue at once, which must 
be kept up briskly throughout. 

Rose. Well, Mary, you are a goose, and no mis- 
take. 
Mary. Why am I a goose, Rose ? 



BAND OF HOPE SPECTACLES. 45 

R. Why are you a goose ? Why, for refusing to 
accept the kind hospitality of our generous friend 
and teacher, Miss Finch. 

M. But I didn't refuse to accept her hospitality. 

R. Why, Mary, you did ; and I wonder how you 
can deny it. 

M. Well, perhaps you'll explain a little more 
clearly. 

R. Didn't she ask you to have a little refresh- 
ment? 

M. Yes, and I said, "Thank you, I'll take a little." 

R. Yes, I know that ; but she asked you something 
else. 

M. What was that? 

R. She said, " Will you take a little wine?" and 
you replied, " No, thank you," to that. 

M. Of course, I know I did. But you said the 
same when she asked you. How can you blame me 
for doing what you did yourself? 

R. How can I blame you ? Why she asked you 
first, and when you refused, I couldn't say yes. If 
you hadn't been a goose, I tell you, we might have 
had a nice glass of wine with our cake. 

M. But I don't see why you should be ashamed to 
take it, if you thought it right to do so. I refused 
because I believe it is wrong, foolish, and dangerous 
to touch either wine or any other kind of intoxicating 
drinks. 

R. Ah, I see, that's some of the nonsense you have 
heard at your band of hope meetings. Well, all I can 
say is, I don't go with you to visit my friends again. 
I can't bear to see people so very particular. Be- 
sides, it's the height of rudeness to refuse anything 
when offered by those you are visiting. 

M. I don't see it in that light, Rose. 



46 BAND OF HOPE SPECTACLES. 

R. Oh, of course not ; you can't see anything so 
long as you have got your Band of Hope spectacles 
on — they make you blind to your own interests. You 
are a lot of silly geese all together. 

M. Well, Rose, you say it is rude to refuse any- 
thing offered to you by those you are visiting. 

R. Yes, I do ; and I think I know something of 
manners. 

M. Well, supposing Miss Finch had offered you 
some poison,. would it be rude to refuse that? 

R. You are talking nonsense. 

M. Answer my question, please. 

R. Of course not. But is wine poison, you foolish 
girl? 

M. Yes, it contains alcohol, which is one of the 
worst of poisons. But that is not what I was going 
to say. It poisons the hearts of those who take it. 

R. Poisons their hearts! what folly; as if it 
wouldn't poison people altogether if it poisoned their 
hearts. 

M. So it does, in time. But what I mean is this : 
those who drink wine or other intoxicants to excess, 
become brutal — their better nature is destroyed, and 
they sink down into mere beasts. 

R. Yes, I agree with you there, when they take 
drink to excess ; but who said anything about 
excess ? 

M. Ah! there lies the danger, Rose. Begin to take 
a little, and you may soon take more. The first glass 
is the fatal step which may, and often does, lead to 
utter misery and ruin. Never take the first glass, 
and then you can't take the second, and you will 
never become a drunkard. 

R. That's just the way you teetotalers always 
talk. 



BAND OF HOPE SPECTACLES. 47 

M. Yes, and therein lies our wisdom. 

R. But at any rate, you can't deny wine is nice to 
drink. 

M. So 'tis said ; and, therefore, the more dange- 
rous. Most sins are nice — they are like sugar-coated 
pills — the sweet comes first, and the bitter after. 

R. Well now, seeing that you talk so unreasonably 
on — 

M. Not unreasonably, Rose ; you can't deny that 
what I say is true, and — 

R. Do hold your tongue, Mary, and let me speak. 
I declare you Band of Hope people are so very 
clever, and so full of argument against the drink, and 
you are so conceited that you won't let anybody else 
speak. 

M. You see we've got the spectacles on. 

R. There you are again ; I do declare you seem 
ready to answer me before I have spoken. I was 
going to say, suppose the doctor ordered you to take 
wine? 

M. I wouldn't take it. 

R. You wouldn't take it ! Oh, you silly, silly, silly 
girl ! Do you suppose you are wiser than the 
doctors ? If they say wine is good, it must be good. 

M. Nonsense, Rose. Doctors, though generally 
wise and conscientious men, don't always give their 
patients the best of advice. This ordering of wine 
and other intoxicants to strengthen people who are 
sick and weakly is now proved to be a great piece 
of folly — nay, worse than folly, for not a few people 
die through taking them. 

R. O Mary, how can you say that ! Why my 
grandmother was ordered wine many years ago, for 
some disease, and she has taken it ever since ; and 



48 BAND OF HOPE SPECTACLES. 

she says when she takes a glass it seems to give her 
instant relief. What do you say to that? 

M. Why, I say the medicine must be very slow in 
its cure, or else the disease is a very extraordinary 
one. Many people, I am sorry to say, are troubled 
with throat and stomach diseases, which drinking 
has brought on, and which, by the way they guzzle 
drink down, seems to be the only remedy. I'm afraid 
your grandmother likes the wine, and therefore 
thinks it does her good. 

R. I hope you don't mean to insinuate that my 
dear old grandmother is a drunkard. 

M. Not at all, Rose ; though anyone seeing her 
red nose, would naturally suppose that she often to 
the bottle goes. But seriously, I think you must 
know that it is a most dangerous thing for young 
people especially to acquire a taste for these danger- 
ous drinks. If I had thought wine was good and 
safe, I would not have declined to take it from Miss 
Finch this evening. But I am convinced it is safer 
to have nothing to do with it. You and I don't need 
it, either for our health's sake or anything else, and 
it is folly to talk as you do ; and as to it tasting 
nice, there are lots of things which taste much nicer, 
and about which there can be no mistake. 

Enter Miss Finch, in walking costume. 

Miss Finch (in astonishment). Why girls, what are 
you doing here ? It is some time since you left my 
house, and I expected you would have been at home 
before this. What is this earnest conversation 
about ? 

M. Rose has been blaming me a little for refusing 
the wine you offered us, and I have been defending 
myself. % 



BAND OF HOPE SPECTACLES. 49 

M. F. But Rose refused, as well as yourself, and I 
was quite pleased. 

R. Pleased, Miss Finch ! I don't understand } r ou. 

M. F. Why you see, girls, I was only trying you. 
I had no wine to give ; but knowing that Mary was 
a Band of Hope girl, I thought I would see if she 
could withstand temptation, and I was delighted to 
hear her decline so kindly yet so firmly when I asked 
her. 

R. I didn't know you were a teetotaler, Miss 
Finch. 

M. Yes, Rose, Miss Finch no doubt wears a pair 
of Band of Hope spectacles. 

M. F. What kind of spectacles are those, my dear? 

M. (smiling). Oh, Rose said, when I was reasoning 
with her on the danger of taking intoxicating drinks, 
that I had got on a pair of Band of Hope spectacles, 
which made me see things in a wrong light. 

M. F. I hope Rose will get a pair soon, so that she 
may be able to see a little clearer than she does at 
present. I have no doubt, Mary, you will get her a 
pair if she will come to one of your meetings. 

M. Yes, if she will come and sign the pledge she 
will get a pair at once, and she will then be able to 
see many wonderful things. 

M. F. Aye, that she will ! Before I signed the 
pledge I was very foolish, and often argued in favor 
of drink; but one evening I went to a Band of Hope 
meeting, and there heard what convinced me that 
there is death in the cup. I signed the pledge at the 
close of the meeting, and have never tasted intoxi- 
cating liquor of any kind since, nor do I intend to. 
And, Rose, every day but adds its testimony against 
the use of drink, and the great advantage and safety 
there is in total abstinence. My Band of Hope spec- 



50 MY UNCLE. 

tacles, instead of making me see in a wrong light, 
have revealed to me such wretchedness, misery, and 
poverty — such pinched and careworn faces — such 
hungry, ragged children — such ignorance, sin, and 
crime — such tears and sorrow — and all caused by 
drink, that I have shuddered at the sight. But they 
have also revealed other sights — pictures of happi- 
ness, where peace and love and plenty reign as the 
results of total abstinence. Now, Rose, which side 
do you think is the best — Drink or Temperance? 

R. I must confess Temperance is the best. 

M. F. Then you will sign the pledge? 

R. Yes, that I will. 

M. And you won't call me a goose any more, will 
you, Rosey ? 

R. Oh ! you must forgive me, Mary ; you are a 
dear duck. 

M. F. There now, hurry home as quickly as possi- 
ble, your parents will be anxious. 

M. (lingering behind and addressing the audience). 
Now, my young friends, when Rose comes to our 
meeting, be sure and have ready a splendid pair of 
Band of Hope spectacles. 



My Uncle. 

Who lives where hang three golden balls, 
Where Dick's poor mother often calls, 
And leaves her tippets, muffs, and shawls ? 

My Uncle. 

Who cheers the heart with " money lent," 
When friends are cold, and all is spent, 
Receiving only one per cent ? 

My Uncle. 



MY UNCLE. 



5* 



Who, when I want a glass of gin, 
Will take my ragged jacket in, 
And keep it till I call again ? 

My Uncle. 

Who takes my saucepan full of holes, 
And shoes in want of better soles, 
To raise the dust to buy the coals ? 

My Uncle. 

Who takes the linen torn and soiled, 
And cradle rocked until it's spoiled, 
In short, takes all, except the child ? 

My Uncle. 

Who, when the wretch is sunk in grief, 
And none beside will yield relief, 
Will aid the honest or the thief? 

My Uncle. 

Yet, when detection threatens law, 
Who hidden stores will open draw, 
That future rogues may stand in awe ? 

My Uncle. 

Who, fortune's golden glare withdrawn, 

When sycophants no longer fawn, 

Takes all but honor into pawn ? 

My Uncle. 

Who cares not what distress may bring, 
If stolen from beggar or from king, 
And, like the sea, takes everything ? 

My Uncle. 



52 WHICH WILL YOU CHOOSE? 

Who does all this, and think'st no sin, 
And, would he yield a glass of gin, 
Would take the Prince of Darkness in ? 

My Uncle, 

Bought wisdom is the best, 'tis clear, 
And since 'tis better, as more dear, 
We for high prices should revere 

My Uncle. 



Which will you Choose ? 

What would those who drink say to the man who 
made it his business to go from one place to another, 
blasting his reputation and spreading the report that 
he was idle, wasteful, disorderly, riotous, and a 
drunkard ? No doubt he would be filled with rage. 
And yet he goes about and proclaims all this, and ten 
times more, by drinking every day of his life. These 
things are bad enough, but the drinker is not satis- 
fied by doing evil by halves. It is not enough to 
render himself and those around him miserable in 
this world, but he is industrious in blotting out all 
hope of happiness in the world which is to come. 
There are many ways to misery, but drinking is the 
swiftest. 

If you happen to be an honest and diligent work- 
man, with plenty of work to do ; if you possess the 
respect of your master and the goodwill of your 
fellow workmen, and have taken a fancy into your 
head, all at once, to get rid of your industry and 
your honesty, to lose the respect of your master and 
the good opinion of your shopmates, I will tell you 



WHICH WILL YOU CHOOSE? 53 

how )'OU may manage the matter in a very little 
time, and with little trouble — learn to drink ! 

If you have a strong constitution, a color on your 
cheek, a firm and nimble step, a regular pulse, a body 
free from disease, and suddenly desire to become 
weakly and pale, and to move along like a tottering 
old man, and to have a feverish pulse, and to be 
afflicted with half a dozen complaints at the same 
time, you cannot do better than listen to me. You 
may go the wrong way to work about the matter, 
you may lose time, but I will tell you how you may 
' be sure to succeed, with great despatch — learn to 
drink ! 

If you have a comfortable and peaceful home, a 
cheerful fireside, with a trifle of money towards pay- 
ing your rent, and have resolved to get rid of all 
these good things together, there are many ways of 
doing it, but the easiest way is to learn to drink ! 

If you have a suit of clothes for Sunday ; if your 
wife is able to dress as comfortably as her neighbors ; 
if your children have good clothes, and you have any 
inclination to see how differently you would all look 
if you were dressed in rags, you may easily gratify 
your curiosity — you have nothing more to do than 
to learn to drink ! 

If your credit is good ; if you owe nothing to any 
one; if you have friends who are willing to assist 
you in your plans, and to stand by you in difficulties ; 
and you wish to run into debt, to ruin your credit 
for ever, and to be left without a single friend in the 
world, all this may be done at once, if you learn to 
drink ! 

If you have slept well; if your mind has been at 
peace ; if your prospects have been cheerful; if you 
have valued your Bible ; if you have taken pleasure 



54 WHAT THE LIQUOR TRAFFIC DOES. 

in religious services, and at length feci a hankering 
after a change ; if you choose your slumbers to be 
broken, your mind to be disturbed, your expectations 
to be clouded, your Bible to be despised and religion 
to become a jest, then learn to drink ! 

If, in short, you mean to make yourself completely 
miserable ; to look backwards with remorse, and for- 
wards with fear ; to live in terror, and to die in de- 
spair ; there is no surer way of doing it in the world 
than that of resolutely determining to learn to drink ! 

But now, if instead of running this wretched 
course, you really desire to do good and avoid evil, 
to live in favor with God and man, to be hopeful 
through time and happy in eternity ; with every 
faculty of your body, soul, and spirit, cry aloud to 
the Strong for strength to resist temptation, and for 
grace to influence your heart, that you may never 
learn to drink ! Which will you choose ? 



What the Liquor Traffic Does. 

What traffic is it which, being introduced into a 
town, would the most neutralize the good previously 
effected by the churches ? 

What will cause an increase of crime and social 
misery in proportion to its success? 

What is it, the abolition of which would rob the 
coroner of half his fees ? 

What is it, without which we should not find em- 
ployment for half the jailers that are now employed ? 

What is it, which the more a workingman encou- 
rages the more destitute his home becomes? 

What is it, on the success of which the pawn- 
brokers mainly depend? 



THE LITTLE SHOES. 55 

What is it that drives so many to the poorhouse ? 

What is it which furnishes the greatest number of 
patients to asylums for the insane ? 

What produces the greatest mortality among those 
who carry it on ? 

What is it that causes so many distress warrants to 
be issued in poor neighborhoods? 

What furnishes the greatest number of applicants 
to charitable institutions ? 

What is it that produces the greatest number of 
bankrupts ? 

What furnishes a resort for plunderers and bad 
characters ? 

To what do the judges of our land ascribe the 
greatest proportion of criminal offences ? 

What is it which, if it were introduced into some 
retired village, would demoralize the population now 
distinguished for its moral worth and frugal in- 
dustry ? 

It is the LIQUOR TRAFFIC. 

What are you doing to suppress it ? 



The Little Shoes. 

It happened on a summer's eve, 
There met in Temperance Hall 

A little band of workingmen, 
Responding to a call 

To come and hear the victories 
That Temperance had won ; 

How fast the noble cause had grown, 
And what its friends had done. 



56 THE LITTLE sllOES. 

With clapping hands and stamping feet 

Each advocate was hailed, 
And not a single voice was raised 

To prove that Temperance failed. 

The meeting drew towards the close, 

But still the interest grew, 
And people steadily sat on 

To hear of something new. 

A workingman sat near the door, 
Young, handsome, and well dressed, 

His animated countenance 
Deep interest expressed. 

Another workman sitting bv 
Thus whispered in his ear : 
" Will Turner, have you nought to tell 
Might do 'era good to hear ? 

" There's many here know what you were, 
And what you once could do ; 
Come, stand up, man, and tell 'em plain 
What made the change in you." 

A buzz of voices cheered him on ; 

How could the man refuse ? 
He rose at once, and stammered out 

" It was the little shoes." 

You might have heard the smallest pin 

Drop down upon the floor, 
So motionless the people sat, 

Expecting something more. 



THE LITTLE SHOES. 57 

The speaker felt that every eye 
Was fixed upon him then, 
" It was the little shoes " — he said — 
And then he paused again. 

A titter ran throughout the hall ; 

Will Turner heard the sound, 
And in a moment stood erect 

And calmly looked around. 

" Men, fathers, friends — it was in truth, 
It was the little shoes ; 
I've not the gift to make a speech 
This meeting to amuse ; 

" But I can tell a simple thing 
That happened once to me, 
If you will kindly give me time 
And hear me patiently. 

" It was a cold December night, 
About six months ago, 
That I became a sober man, 
And I will tell you how. 

" I had a wife, I had a child ; 
As sweet a child and wife 
As ever God in mercy gave 
To cheer a poor man's life. 

" I had a home, as neat and trim 
As her dear hands could make, 
And all the trouble that she took 
Was for her husband's sake. 



58 THE LITTLE SHOES. 

" I let her dress in shameful rags, 
Who loved to dress so neat; 
I even let her want for shoes 
To put upon her feet. 

" Now think of that ! I blush to think 
The villain I have been — 
That I could starve both wife and child, 
And love them less than gin ! 

" Oh ! when I think of what I've done, 
Of what she has endured, 
And that she lives and loves me still, 
And that my sin is cured ! 

u I've said 'twas in the wintertime — 
The snow was in the street; 
I knew there was no fire at home, 
Nor yet a bit to eat ; 

" I knew it — what was that to me ? 
The drinking shop was warm ; 
There I could make myself at home, 
Nor care about the storm. 

" A crowd of people filled the place ; 
Chink, chink, the money went, 
And as it trickled in the till 
The mistress laughed content. 

" Well might she laugh, while every glass 
But added to her store, 
And she was growing rich as fast 
As we were growing poor. 



THE LITTLE SHOES. 59 

u But 'twasn't that. She had a child, 
About as old as mine ; 
But hers was loved and petted up, 
While mine was left to pine. 

" She dressed it like a little queen, 
In warm and handsome clothes, 
And then I saw her fit it on 
A pair of scarlet shoes. 

" How proud they looked ! how pleased she 
That merry little thing ! [was, 

The thought of my poor barefoot child 
Went through me like a sting. 

a I started up, I could not stop — 
I had no will to choose — 
I could not bear to see that child 
In those new scarlet shoes. 

" Out on the doorstep stood my wife, 
Chilled to the very bone, 
And in her trembling arms she held 
My shivering little one. 

" I caught it from her arms to mine, 
I pressed it to my heart, 
The touch of its small icy feet 
Struck through me like a dart, 

" I hid them underneath my coat 
And then within my vest, 
And there they lay and wakened up 
The father in my breast. 



60 FIRE ! fire! 

" They lay, and thawed the ice away — 
My heart began to beat — 
Like frozen limbs roused up to life 
By glow of sudden heat. 

€i It was the hand of God that made 
My hardened conscience smart, 
It was the little icy feet 

That walked into my heart. 

" My child, thank God, is rosy now, 
My home is trim and neat, 
My wife — there is not one like her 
All up and down the street. 

" My story's done. If any here 
This warning will refuse, 
May God rouse him, as He roused me, 
By those two little shoes !" 

— Mrs. SewelL 



Fire ! Fire ! 

Night in New York. What a world of meaning 
is hidden in that sentence. Night in New York. 
Night, when poverty and misery can -walk abroad 
unseen; when vice can wander forth without dis- 
guise ; when the reveller's shout dins the ear and the 
blasphemer's oath makes one shudder. Silent are 
the city streets : the roar of the traffic is stilled for 
awhile, and the footfall of the lated pedestrian echoes 
with startling distinctness. What means that red 
glare in the sky ? It is not near daybreak ? No, it is 
the gleam and glow of fire. See how it brightens 



6l FIRE ! FIRE ! 

and then falls. Hark ! others have seen the reflec- 
tion, and a cry of alarm startles the midnight still 
ness. " Fire S fire I" The cry gathers strength as it 
is passed along. Fire ! Fire ! Hark to the tramping 
of teet ! Look, they are coming from all directions 
— breathless, some hatless and coatless — as if aroused 
from sleep. Now the thundering of hoofs is heard, 
and the shouting of the firemen — " Hi ! hi !" See 
how the flames are bursting through the windows ! 
Hark how the rotten timber crackles ! Now they 
are playing upon it with the long hose, and the deep 
thud, thud of the engine sounds above the crackling 
of the flames. Hark ! was not that a cry for help ? 
It came from that room yonder. Quick, quick, the 
ladder ! They have raised it against the window. A 
sturdy fireman mounts it, his bright helmet glowing 
in the blaze. Two or three strokes of his hatchet 
and the sash falls in, and out streams a vast volume 
of smoke, but nothing else is visible. The fireman 
disappears in the aperture. The crowd hold their 
breath, and the excitement becomes intense. Pre- 
sently he appears again, holding the fainting form of 
a woman in his arms. He has mounted the window 
sill, and is preparing to descend. See, the flames 
have almost reached him! Look, he is coming 
down. A deafening cheer goes up as the noble fel- 
low reaches the ground— a cheer that is worth the 
winning. Rough voices shout, and great brawny 
hands are stretched out to congratulate him. The 
flames have reached the roof, and the rafters are 
beginning to give way. Soon, with a crash and a 
sputter, the roof falls, and the black and charred 
skeleton of a house is all that is left on the morrow 
to tell that a home has been blotted out. 

Fire is a terrible enemy, but a more devouring 



62 MRS. TOMPKINS GOES TO A SPELLING BEE. 

enemy is still going in and out amongst us. The 
power of the fire-demon Alcohol is not yet crippled. 
We have still to overcome this mighty foe. With in- 
sidious wiles he enters the homes of millions of our 
countrymen and ruins them. Let us give him no 
quarter, but whenever we see his terrible form up- 
reared, let us shout aloud our warning cry — " Fire ! 
fire !" 



Mrs. Tompkins Goes to a Spelling Bee. 

Yes, mum, I've been to a spellin' bee as they calls 
'em. I went with Missus Reynolds as keeps the 
chandler's shop at the corner, and a nice little body 
she is too, always that neat and civil as is a pleasure 
to be served by her. Well, I was a sittin' down en- 
joyin' a quiet cup of Congoo — the cup that cheers 
but don't intoxicate, as the poet says — when who 
should drop in but Mrs. Reynolds. " Oh, Mrs. 
Tomkins," she says, " would you like to go to a 
spellin 5 bee?'' " A what, mum ?" says I. " A spellin' 
bee. It's for the benefit of a school," she says. 
" Well," I says, " if it's for a deserving objects I'll 
go, but I never heard of such a curiosity afore. I 
heard about the learned pig ; but a spellin' bee is an 
oncommon animal to be sure." " Oh," she says, " it 
ain't a real bee," she says. " Oh, ain't it, mum ; I 
suppose it's one of them tomatoms — things they 
move by clockwork," I says. " No, mum," she says ; 
" it's a competition — a spellin' competition." "What- 
ever do they call it a bee for," I says, " if it isn't 
one?" "I don't know," she says, " unless it means 
industry. It's ladies and gentlemen spellin' for 



MRS. TOMPKINS GOES TO A SPELLING BEE. 63 

prizes/' " Oh," I says, " there's a good many as 
does that, but them that spells most shouldn't get 
anything if I had my way." " It's spellin' words out 
of a dickshunary," she says. " Oh," I says, " it 
wouldn't do for me; I never was reckoned very 
clever at spellin' at school, and I've forgotten a'most 
all that I learnt except the tingle of the cane when 
they punished me." " Oh," she says, " you won't 
have to spell anything ; we only look on at the 
others." " Oh," I says, "if that's it, I'm all right." 
So it was agreed on as how she was to call for me, 
and we were to go into the reserved seats so as to 
have a good chance of hearing. Well, she came 
punctual, and we started together. When we got 
there, the people were going in like a pantomine. 
There was such a lot of nicely dressed ladies on the 
platform that I began to think as how it was a milli- 
ner's exhibition. A nice old gentleman took the chair, 
and made a speech about Dr. Johnson, and Webster, 
and all the great men as wrote dickshunaries. He 
told us how we ought to study our mother tongue. 
" Oh," I says to Mrs. Reynolds, " Tomkins' mother 
was an Irish woman ; if he'd have learnt her lang- 
widge he wouldn't have been much better off, I 
reckon." After the chairman's speech there was 
some singing, and then the interrorgaiters as they 
calls him, comes to the front of the platform, and 
began to ask the ladies to spell a lot of words. As 
my grandmother used to say, they was regular jaw- 
breakers. " Spell ' matrimony,' " he says to one very 
sour-faced looking lady with corkscrew curls and 
spectacles. " I dessay that's what she's been spellin' 
for a long time," I says. " Hush!" says Mrs. Rey- 
nolds, " she'll hear you." " Spell ' sheenong,' " lie 
says to a young lady with a great cottage loaf at the 



64 MRS. TOMPKINS GOES TO A SPELLING BEE. 

back of her head. She didn't spell it right, and so 
she had to go down. Oh, didn't the young men 
giggle at her, that's all. " Spell ' vinegar,' " he says 
to a very sour looking old man as looked like a walk- 
ing dickshunary ; but he didn't spell it right, and when 
the people laughed at him he looked so savage as I 
thought he was going to give some on 'em a tap with 
his walking stick. " Spell ' valentine,' " says the in- 
terrorgaiters to a young lady. But, la! she giggled, 
so it set all the people off, and it was a long time be- 
fore she could say anything at all. But she spelt it 
right after all. " She was thinking about it," I says 
to Mrs. Reynolds, " while she was laughin' ; you 
mark my words, she's a knowing young puss." 
Then they asked a young man to spell a word as 
sounded foreign to me. " Oh," says he, " there's 
two ways of spellin' that word ; which way shall I 
spell it?" " Both," says the interrorgaiters. He tried 
to spell it two different ways. " Both wrong," says 
the gentleman with the book. Whatever they called 
him that funny name about gaiters for I can't think. 
He had a beautiful pair of black trousers on, and no 
leggings of any sort. Perhaps his father used to 
wear gaiters. I thought of asking Mrs. Reynolds 
once or twice, only I didn't like to look ignorant. 
The chairman said in order to give variety to the 
entertainment there would be. some music. Then 
a young gal, with long curls, come and sat herself 
down to the piannerfortee, and punished the instru- 
ment, as Tomkins calls it. " Whatever is she trying 
to play ?" I whispers to Mrs. Reynolds. " It's a 
galop," she says. " Oh, is it; it looks like it." For 
the young gal was a shaking her head and banging 
into that piannerfortee in a very violent manner. 
After that was over (and I wasn't sorry when it was) 



MRS. TOMPKINS GOES TO A SPELLING BEE. 6^ 







a tall young lady in blue silk came forward and sang 
something about wanting a bird to come and live 
with her. " La," I says to Mrs. Reynolds; " she's 
only got to purwide a cage, and some seed, and some 
clean sand, and to give it plenty of water ; but if she 
was to leave the door of the cage open and begin to 
make the awful noise as she's making now, the bird 
would be off in a jiff." But, la! the peope clapped 
and hollered oncore like mad. Then a young man 
sang a very sorrowful sort of piece about a young 
lady as he kept asking to meet him once again. And 
then there was more spellin' by the ladies and gen- 
tlemen. There, was only three prizes, and the people 
got very tired before it was over. My opinion is as 
how spellin' bees may be all very well, but I don't 
see the use of a lot of people exposin' their ignorance 
on a platform. Why don't they go to an evenin' 
school ? I'd much rather go to school if I was ever 
so old, than be stared at on a platform. What's the 
School Board doin' I want to know? If they can't 
teach people to spell so as they sha'n't look ridicu- 
lous in company, what's the good on 'em ? But the 
words they ask you to spell are no manner of use to 
honest people. Whenever I write a letter I always 
put P. S. — Please excuse the spellin'. I think I shall 
put in my postscriptions for the future — " Please ex- 
cuse the spellin' bee." 



66 THE AUCTION. 

The Auction. 

Will you walk into the auction, for the sale is just 

begun, 
And bid and buy, my masters all, before the lots are 

done? 
Such wondrous curiosities were ne'er exposed to 

view, 
So I pray you pay attention while I read th' in- 

vent'ry through. 

Will you walk into the auction? 

Lot I. — Some dirty dishes, which have once been 

edged with blue, 
But, alas ! the rims are broken, and they let the 

water through ; 
A broken knife, a one-pronged fork, and half a 

wooden spoon, 
And a little penny whistle, which has never played a 

tune. 

Will you, etc. 

Lot II. — A crazy fiddle, without finger-board or peg; 
'Twas broken at the Fox and Goose, when 

" Scraper" broke his leg ; 
The fiddlerbag and fiddle-stick are with it, I declare, 
But the one is full of moth-holes, and the other has 

no hair. 

Will you, etc. 

Lot III. — An old oak table, which has once been 

neat and small, 
But having lost a pair of legs, it rests against the 

wall ; 



THE AUCTION. 67 

The top is split, the drawers are gone, its leaves 

have dropped away, 
And it has not felt the weight of food for six months 

and a day. 

Will you, etc. 

Lot IV. — The shadow of a chair, whose back and 

seat are fled ; 
The latter Jenny burnt, because the former broke 

her head ; 
And now they've tied its crazy joints with cords of 

hempen string, 
And it creaks when it is sat upon, just like a living 

thing. 

Will you, etc. 

Lot V. — A truss of barley straw, and two small 

pokes of chaff, 
Which have served for bed and pillows just five 

3^ears and a half; 
Two sheets of homespun matting, of the very coarsest 

grain, 
And a piece of ragged carpeting, which was the 

counterpane. 

Will you, etc. 

Lot VI. — A corner cupboard, with the things con- 

tain'd therein — 
A spoutless teapot and a cup, both well perfumed 

with gin — 
A broken bottle and a glass — a pipe without a 

head — 
And a dirty, empty meal bag, where two mice are 

lying dead. 

Will you, etc. 



68 THE CURIOUS DOSE. 

Lot VII. — One old bottle neck, bedaubed with 

grease so thick, 
Which formed when they'd a candle, a convenient 

candlestick ; 
Also, an old tin kettle, without handle or a spout, 
And a pan, of which a neighbor's child had drumm'd 

the bottom out. 

Will you, etc. 

Lot VIII. — A het'rogeneous heap of bits of odds 
and ends, 

Which you may purchase very cheap as presents for 
your friends ; 

Also, some locomotive rags, which move with per- 
fect ease, 

Like the little coach we read of, that was drawn by 
little fleas. 

Will you, etc. 

Come, walk into the auction, for my catalogue is 

through, 
Yet I have just one word to say, before I bid adieu. 
These lots are all produced by Drink — which you'll 

do well to shun, 
Before your health and substance too, are " going, 

going — GONE ! " 



The Curious Dose. 

An officer in quarters lay 

At Dublin — I may say 
His case was fever, raging, burning — 

He took to his bed, 

With fiery eyes and aching head, 
And tossed as if on glowing cinders turning. 



THE CURIOUS DOSE. 69 

The doctor came ('twas very needful) — 
And he displayed his skill most heedful ; 
He wrote for pills and draughts to drive 
The demon out — dead or alive ; 
And ordered, as he might be worse, 
A steady, careful, good old nurse ; 
And quickly to the patient came — 
As recommended — the old dame. 

She poured the draught into a cup, 
And soon the sick man drank it up ; 
The box of pills with care she placed 
Where various things the mantel graced, 
Because two hours must pass away, 
To let the potion have fair play. 

That time elapsed, Nurse made all speed 

The patient with the pills to feed — 

She ope'd the box, and gave him two, 

He gulped them down without ado ; 

Two more, and then two more must follow, 

These rather stuck within his swallow ; 

" Good Nurse, some drink !" He drank, and then 

Boldly attacked the pills again. 

Two more went down, and then two more, 

Which made the number half-a-score. 

a More drink ! so many is provoking — 
My throat is full — I'm almost choking.'' 
" Arrah, my jewel, let me tell 
You these will shortly make you well. 5 ' 

Two more he took : " I prithee, say, 

Good Nurse, how many there remains? " 
" Two, four, five, seven, nine, ten, twelve — aye. 



7° 



THE CURIOUS DOSE. 

By Shelah, good St. Patrick's cousin, 

The box contains — 
Exact another dozen ! " 

" A dozen more ! " the sick man cries 
(Trembling with fever and surprise) 
'* I thought apothecaries vended 
By retail till their patients mended ; 
This sells the poison by wholesale ! " 

This boisterous gale 

Of angry passion o'er, 

She coaxed him to get down two more, 

And thus at length he swallowed twenty-four ! 

Worn with fatigue, sometime he lay, 

To pain and angry thoughts a prey, 

But soon his agony increased, 
For, lo ! the pills lay undigested 
Hard at his stomach, there they rested, 

And filled with dreadful pain his breast. 

The doctor must be called — he came ; [ders ; 

Inquired each symptom — shrugged his shoul- 
He, apprehensive for his fame, 

And for the patient one or two beholders — 
" Did you administer the draught ? " " Oh, yes ! " 
"The pills?" " 'Tis they that have caused all this," 
Exclaims the officer. " Did you suppose 
I was a horse, that you sent such a dose ? 
I've four-and-twenty bullets lying 
In my stomach — and I'm dying." 
" Bullets ! " repeats the doctor, with surprise, 

" Sir, I'm a man of peace, and every pill 

I sent was meant to cure — not to kill. 
Besides I sent but two," he straight replies. 
" I've swallowed twenty-four !" the sick man cries. 



A CALL FOR HELP. 71 

A squinting servant of the house stood by, 
And toward the shelf she cast an eye : 
She ope'd the doctor's box, and there 
The pills both snug and safe appear. 
Another box upon the shelf remained 

Empty. " Why, Nurse, 15 she squalls, 

And at the doctor like a fury bawls, 
" This box, now empty, once contained 

What the poor gentleman has taken — 
Were he an ostrich, or the prince of gluttons, 

You'd scarcely save his bacon, 
For, sans leaven, 
You have given 
Him two dozen round shirt buttons! 



A Call for Help. 

Mr. Chairman, Ladies, and Gentlemen — I believe 
intemperance to be a great curse to the land in which 
we live, and an enemy both to God and man. I 
know, sir, persons are to be found (perhaps there are 
some present) who ask: " What harm is there in 
just taking, now and then, a glass of beer or a drop 
of brandy ? " I reply : ' ' Afterwards it biteth like a 
serpent and stingeth like an adder." Do any of you 
ask : " What harm does drink do ? " If so, allow me 
to say that my experience, limited as it is on ac- 
count of my youth, leads me to think that it does 
nothing but harm. 

I remember, sir, a fable of a serpent being sur- 
rounded by fire, and in this critical position request- 
ing a man to set it free. This he agreed to do if the 
serpent would promise not to sting him. The ser- 



72 A CALL FOR HELP. 

pent readily consented. When set free, however, it 
instantly stung its deliverer. Upon the man accusing 
the serpent of ingratitude, and reminding it of its 
promise, it simply replied : " Ah, sir, it's my nature 
to sting ! " Now, sir, I firmly believe that the very 
tendency of drink is to injure and destroy. 

Should any doubt, I would ask, in the eloquent 
language of a living writer : " Has it not led thou- 
sands to the jails, and hundreds to the scaffold ? Has 
it not made women widows while their husbands 
lived, and children orphans ere their parents died? 
Has it not sent brothers far across the sea, and hung 
with chains the limbs that once were free ? What 
has it not done? What dismal woe has it not pro- 
duced ? What soft affection has it not massacred? 
With what virtuous blood are not its murderous 
hands besmeared ? It is the devil's truest weapon, 
the serpent's subtlest poison. Its pathway is paved 
with broken hearts and strewn with withered hopes. 
It leads from contentment to distress, from distress to 
want, from want to vice, from vice to crime, from 
crime to punishment, from punishment to disease, 
from disease to death, from death to the grave, from 
the grave to the judgment, and from the judgment 
to damnation." 

If this be true, ladies and gentlemen, what ought 
we to do ? What ? Why, we ought all to do every- 
thing we can to slay the great Philistine. 

Through the land there is stalking a giant-like foe, 
Who spreads in his track sin, sorrow, and woe ; 
Who smites down all classes — the rich and the poor, 
The aged and the young, lie faint at his door. 
He enters the home of the hard-working man, 
And robs him of every possession he can ; 
His wife and his children he fills with despair, 
And the spot once so bright is beclouded with care. 



73 WHAT DOEST THOU HERE ? 

But, sir, the time is coming when the blessings of 
total abstinence shall fill the dwelling-place of man. 
Much has yet to be done before the long-wished and 
prayed-for day arrives, but come it will, if we do 
our duty. I earnestly appeal to you for assistance 

Are you followers of Him " Who for our sakes be- 
came poor, that we through His poverty might 
become rich?" Then I especially call to you for 
help. It ought to be, it must be, your highest ambi- 
tion to remove everything that impedes the progress 
of truth. If the wilderness and the solitary places 
are to be made glad, if the desert is to blossom as the 
rose, you must help us. The late Dr. Guthrie once 
said : " Until the Church of God will face manfully 
and Christianly the great drink curse, no great 
aggression will be made upon the sorrows or the 
miseries of the people." Assist us then by your 
earnest efforts and your faithful prayers. Your aim 
being good and your motives pure, success shall be 
your reward. Then arise, ye people of God, in the 
name of your Master and in the cause of humanity, 
and, moved by Christian zeal and brotherly feeling, 
take in your hand the battle-axe of Temperance, and 
rest not satisfied until you have slain the enemy ! 



What Doest Thou Here? 
It is Saturday night, and the week is near past, 

All its toils and its burdens are o'er, 
And the smile of content shineth bright on his face 

As the cottager closes his door. 
'Tis eleven o'clock ; it is time to be gone, 

For the morn of the Sabbath draws near — 
There's a fire in thine eye, there's a fiend in thy brain ; 

O, drunkard ! what doest thou here ? 



74 WHAT DOEST THOU HERE ? 

Perchance a fond wife, with a sad broken heart, 

Is watching all weary and worn, 
With a tear in her eye, with despair in her breast, 

And a spirit all tattered and torn. 
Oh, think, it is her whom you vow'd to adore, 

To nourish, protect, and to cheer ; 
Then why hast thou left her in anguish to mourn ? 

O, drunkard ! what doest thou here ? 

And hast thou no children to need thy strong arm, 

Nor wand'rer for thee to reprove ? 
No fond ones to climb up thy fatherly knees, 

And clasp thee like clusters of love ? 
No son that is rip'ning for good or for ill, 

And needing thy counsel and care, 
Or daughter ensnared by the smiles of deceit? 

O, drunkard ! what doest thou here? 

There's a tread ifr the street of some little one's feet, 

All naked and bleeding and sore ; 
There's a shivering body all purple with cold — 

Ah, me ! it is hard to be poor ! 
But her mother has nothing to give her to eat, 

For her cupboard is naked and bare ; 
And her father sits long o'er his glasses of ale, 

O, drunkard ! what doest thou here ? 

It is Saturday night, 'tis eleven o'clock, 

And the morn of the Sabbath draws near ; 
Then haste for your life, and be gone to your home, 

'Tis the time of refreshing and prayer. 
Go, gather your lov'd ones and cry to your God 

To give you repentance sincere ; 
He will not reproach thee, He will not condemn, 

Nor ask thee, What doest thou here ? 



THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 75 

The Discontented Pendulum. 

An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a 
farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause 
of complaint, early one summer's morning, before 
the family was stirring, suddenly stopped. 

Upon this the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) 
changed countenance with alarm ; the hands made a 
vain effort to continue their course ; the wheels re- 
mained motionless with surprise ; the weights hung . 
speechless ; each member felt disposed to lay the 
blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a 
formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, 
when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protest- 
ed their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard 
below from the pendulum, who thus spoke : u I con- 
fess myself to be the sole cause of the present stop- 
page ; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, 
to assign my reasons — the truth is, that I am tired 
of ticking/' Upon hearing this, the old clock became 
so enraged that it was on the very point of striking. 

" Lazy wire I" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up 
its hands. 

" Very good !" replied the pendulum. " It is vastly 
easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as 
everybody knows, set yourself up above me — it is 
vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of 
laziness ! You who have had nothing to do all the 
days of your life but to stare people in the face, and 
to amuse yourself by watching all that goes on in the 
kitchen. Think, I beseech you, how you would like 
to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag 
backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do. I 
am really tired of my life ; and, if you wish, I'll tell 
you how I took this disgust at my employment. I 



76 THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 

happened this morning to be calculating how many 
times I should have to tick in the course only of the 
next twenty-four hours ; perhaps some of you above 
there can give me the exact sum ?" 

The minute-hand, being quick at figures, instantly 
replied : " Eighty-six thousand four hundred times.' ' 

" Exactly so/' replied the pendulum. " Well, I ap- 
peal to you all, if the very thought of this was not 
enough to fatigue one ; and when I began to multiply 
the strokes of one day by those of months and years, 
really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the 
prospect ; so, after a great deal of reasoning and 
hesitation, thinks I to myself — I'll stop." 

The dial could scarcely keep its countenance dur- 
ing this harangue, but resuming its gravity, thus re- 
plied : " Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished 
that such a useful, industrious person as yourself 
should have been overcome by this sudden action. 
It is true you have done a great deal of work in 
your time, so have we all, and are likely to do ; 
which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the 
question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would 
you now do me the favor to give half-a-dozen strokes, 
to illustrate my argument?" 

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at 
its usual pace. 

" Now,' resumed the dial, " may I be allowed to 
inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or dis- 
agreeable to you ?" * 

" Not in the least," replied the pendulum ; " it is 
not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but 
of millions." 

" Very good," replied the dial ; " but recollect 
that though you may think of a million strokes in an 
instant, you are required to execute but one ; and 



THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 77 

that, however often you may hereafter have to 
swing, a moment will always be given you to swing 
in." 

" That consideration staggers me, I confess," said 
the pendulum. 

" Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, " we shall 
all immediately return to our duty ; for the maids 
will lie in bed till noon, if we stand idling thus." 

Upon this, the weights, who had never been ac- 
cused of light conduct, used all their influence in 
urging him to proceed ; when, as with one consent, 
the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, 
the pendulum began to swing, and to its credit 
ticked as loud as ever ; while a red beam of the ris- 
ing sun that streamed through a hole in the kitchen 
shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened 
up as if nothing had been the matter. 

When the farmer came down to breakfast that 
morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared 
that his watch had gained half-an-hour in the night. 

Moral. 

In looking forward to future life, let us recollect 
that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all 
its sufferings, or to encounter all its crosses at once. 
One moment comes laden with its own little burdens, 
then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier 
than the last ; if one could be borne, so can another 
and another. Even in looking forward to a single 
day, the spirit may sometimes faint from an anticipa- 
tion of the duties, the labors, the trials to temper and 
patience that may be expected. Now this is unjustly 
laying the burden of many thousand moments upon 
one. Let any one resolve always to do right now, 



7 8 DOWN IN THE MIRE. 

leaving then to do as it can ; and if he were to live 
to the age of Methuselah, he would never do wrong. 

It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, 
merely because we forget that when to-morrow 
comes, then will be now ; thus life passes with many 
in resolutions for the future which the present never 
fulfils. 

It is not thus with those who, " by patient continu- 
ance in well-doing, seek for glory, honor, and im- 
mortality " — day by day, minute by minute, they ex- 
ecute the appointed task to which the requisite 
measure of time and strength is proportioned ; and 
thus, having worked while it was called day, they at 
length rest from their labors, and their " works fol- 
low them." 

Let us, then, " whatever our hands find to do, do it 
with all our might," recollecting that now is the 
proper and " accepted time." 



Down in the Mire. 

Down in the slush and mud of the street, 
Kick'd on one side by the passengers' feet, 
Hat batter'd in, and eyes flashing fire, 
Headlong the drunkard falls down in the mire. 

'Bus drivers shout, as he staggers along, 
Yelling the chorus of some filthy song) 
With his hoarse voice rising higher and higher ; 
But now he has fallen down into the mire. 

Boys selling " box o' lights " yell at his heels, 
Stones fly fast at him as onward he reels, 
A crowd gathers round, and ask, " Is it fire ?" 
" No, it's only a drunken man down in the mire.' 



DOWN IN THE MIRE. 79 

Ladies shrink from him and shudder with fear, 
Lest the poor drunkard should stagger too near, 
Drawing up closer their silken attire, 
Lest he should spatter their clothing with mire. 

Foot-passenger, stop, ere you pass on your way ; 

Don't tell me you're awfully busy to-day ; 

You have put down your name to build a church 

spire — 
Here's a broken-down temple down in the mire. 

Ruddy-cheek'd boy, on your way to the school, 
Cramming your head with hard science b}^ rule, 
Don't think that book-learning is all you require — 
Here's a lesson for you, my boy, down in the mire. 

Don't open your blue eyes so wide on me now ! 
Don't curl up your lip and wrinkle your brow ! 
He once was a schoolboy with heart full of fire, 
But now he lies helpless down in the mire. 

Young maiden, with curls like bright threads of pure 

gold — 
Forgive me, fair maiden, if I am too bold ; 
You have health, you have beauty, and all you 

desire ; 
Just look for one moment down in the mire. 

You have lovers in plenty, who sigh at your feet, 
But there's one, and one only, whose whisper is 

sweet ; 
It is right you should love him ; but, lady, come 

nigher — 
He was somebody's lover once — that man in the 

mire. 



80 AN HONEST PUBLICAN'S ADVERTISEMENT. 

Little girl, little girl, singing blithely with glee, 
Just stay for one moment and listen to me : 
When you bring papa's slippers to warm at the fire, 
Think of somebody's father, who's down in the mire. 

Yes, somebody's father's down in the street, 
Kick'd on one side by the passengers' feet, 
Hat batter'd in, and eyes flashing fire, 
Yelling out curses while down in the mire. 

Will nobody help him ? will nobody save 
This poor stranded wreck on life's troubled wave ? 
Yes, yes ! we will struggle to lift him up higher, 
Though we have to go down deep into the mire. 



An Honest Publican's Advertisement. 

Friends and Neighbors — Grateful for the liberal 
encouragement received from you, and having sup- 
plied my shop and tavern with a new and ample 
stock of choice wines, spirits, and malt liquors, I 
thankfully inform you that I continue to make 
drunkards, paupers, and beggars, for the sober, in- 
dustrious, and respectable community to support. 
My liquors may excite you to riot, robbery, and 
blood, and will certainly diminish your comforts, 
augment your expenses, and shorten your lives. I 
confidently recommend them as sure to multiply 
fatal accidents and distressing diseases, and likely to 
render them incurable. They will agreeably deprive 
some of life, some of reason, many of character, and 
all of peace — will make fathers fiends, wives widows, 
mothers cruel, children orphans, and all poor. I will 
train the young to ignorance, dissipation, infidelity, 



AN HONEST PUBLICAN'S ADVERTISEMENT. 8[ 

lewdness, and every vice — corrupt the ministers of 
religion, obstruct the gospel, defile the church, and 
cause as much temporal and eternal death as I can. 

I will thus u accommodate the public, " it may be 
at the cost of my never-dying soul. I have a family 
to support — the trade pays — and the public encour- 
age it. I have a character from my minister, and a 
license from the magistrate ; my traffic is lawful ; 
Christians countenance it ; and if I do not bring 
these evils upon you somebody else will. I know 
the Bible says, " Thou shalt not kill," — pronounces a 
<; woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink," and 
enjoins me not to " put a stumbling-block in a 
brother's way." I also read that " no drunkard shall 
inherit the kingdom of God," and I cannot expect 
the drunkard-maker, without repentance, to share a 
better fate ; but I wish a lazy living, and have delib- 
erately resolved to gather the wages of iniquity, and 
fatten on the ruin of my species. I shall therefore 
carry on my trade with energy, and do my best to 
diminish the wealth of the nation, impair the health 
of the people, and endanger the safety of the state. 
As my traffic flourishes in proportion to your ignor- 
ance and sensuality, I will do my utmost to prevent 
your intellectual elevation, moral purity, social hap- 
piness, and eternal welfare. Should you doubt my 
ability, I refer you to the pawn-shop, the poor-house, 
the police-office, the hospital, the jail, and the gal- 
lows, where so many of my customers have gone. 
The sight of them will satisfy you that I do what I 
promise. 

N.B. — I teach old and young to drink, and charge 
only for the materials ; a very few lessons will be 
sufficient. 



82 THE DEATH OF THE REVELLER, 

The Death of the Reveller. 
The lights were gleaming and the feast was spread, 
And at the table sat the boisterous guests, 
Shouting and singing snatches of coarse songs. 
The giver of the feast was an old man, 
Grown old in sin, and harden'd more and more, 
Till age found him, 'mid the boisterous crew, 
A guide and prompter into any path 
That led away from virtue or from truth. 
His snow-white hair upon his shoulders fell 
In twining ringlets ; and his silver beard, 
Grizzled with age, clung to his hollow cheeks ; 
And on his brow the plough of time had made 
Deep furrows ; and his eyes were growing dim. 
But still his hollow voice rang on the night, 
And his eye glisten'd at the obscene jests 
Of his companions, and his skinny hands 
Beat on each other with a hollow sound 
At the rude singing of the rabble crew. 
It was an awful sight to see him there, 
So old and withered, yet so wildly gay ; 
So like a patriarch, yet so like a fiend. 
The ruddy wine was pour'd incessantly ; 
And as the brimming goblets pass'd along, 
The old man chuckled, and his eyes grew bright. 
He seized a flagon in his trembling hands, 
And held it to his lips, and shriek' d aloud, 
The while it ran like blood upon his beard, 
And trickled to the floor. At each fresh draught 
New vigor seem'd to nerve his aged limbs, 
And he sat more erect, and lifted up 
His trembling voice and sang an ancient song. 
The vaulted roof re-echo'd with the shouts 
Of the mad revellers when the song was o'er, 
And eagerly they calFd out, " Sing again !" 



THE DEATH OF THE REVELLER. &$ 

The old man took another draught of wine, 
And, smiling", once again essay'd to sing. 
It was a love-song — a sweet, simple thing — 
A song he oft had sung in his fresh youth, 
When his young heart was gay as any bird's, 
And life was like a glorious dream of flowers. 
His trembling voice grew stronger as he sang, 
And his hard features soften'd, and a smile 
Play'd o'er his face, and in his glistening eye 
A tear-drop stood. His inmost soul was stirr'd 
With thoughts of other days, and his harsh voice 
Grew soft as woman's, and his radiant face 
Beam'd with the light of tender memories. 
But suddenly his cheek turn'd deadly pale, 
And he fell backward, with his long lean hand 
Press'd to his side, as if with sudden pain. 
The guests, alarm'd, ran quickly to his aid, 
And raised him up, and press'd a brimming cup 
Against his lips. But, with a gesture, he 
Put it away, and lifting up his head, 
Spake in a solemn voice, unlike his own, 
While the dazed revellers stood silent by : 

" Nay, tempt me not again ! 
I will not touch the wine-cup in this hour : 
Too often have I felt its deadly power ; 

And I would clear my brain 
In these last trembling moments, for I feel 
Death's icy hand across my temples steal. 

" Nay, do not smile at me 
And mock me with false hope of many days : 
My time has come : this is death's filmy haze 

That will not let me see 
Your faces round me, though the lamps are bright 
And the wine glitters in the sparkling light. 



84 THE DEATH OF THE REVELLER. 

" To die in such a place ! 
I who once knelt beside my mother's knee 
To say my evening prayer. And must it be 

That I may ne'er retrace 
The pathway of my life, lest haply I 
Might do one deed of good before I die ? 

" And must I die to-night, 
With the still echoing songs to mar my peace, 
To bid all thoughts of heavenly subjects cease ? 

Ere the sun's golden light 
Streams through the windows of this awful place, 
Death will have stamp'd his impress on my face. 

" Oh ! listen to my voice, 
Ye, who have often shouted with delight 
At my rude jesting, listen now to-night. 

Ye, who in youth rejoice, 
Be warn'd by me, and stay while yet 'tis time, 
Ere your young souls get harden'd unto crime. 

" Oh ! shun the wine-cup now ! — 
Now, while the light of youth is in your eye ; 
While hope weaves golden colors in your sky ; 

Ere yet upon your brow 
The frosts of winter fall, and time's rough share 
Plough, deep and lasting, bitter furrows there. 

" I have been wont to sneer 
At holy themes, and laugh at those who trod 
The path of virtue and look'd up to God 

With holy, reverent fear. 
But now I would give worlds if I could pray 
The prayer I would repeat at close of day. 



THE VAGRANTS. 85 

" Raise my head higher now — 
Open the windows, let me have more air — 
I cannot breathe ! — why do you wildly stare ? 

This cold sweat on my brow 
Is death, I know. I faint — I reel — I fall ! 
Mind my last words. Ha ! may God save you all." 

His head fell back ; and they who watch'd him die 

Stood gazing at each other for awhile ; 

And then with soft, slow steps they one by one 

Crept silently away. The banquet-hall 

Is silent and deserted, and the walls 

No longer echo to the revellers' mirth. 

There is a solemn stillness in the place, 

As if the ghost of the departed hours 

Had found a refuge there. The owlet screams 

About the windows ; and the moonlight falls 

Upon the empty board ; and all is still. 



The Vagrants. 



CHARACTERS 



A landlord, seated in his bar; 

A vagrant, who enters with his fiddle and dog. 

Vagrant. We are two travellers, Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog, and if you please 
You'll let us come in by your stove to dry, 

For the rain and sleet to my garments freeze. 
The rogue is growing a little old ; 

Five years we've tramped through wind and 
weather, 
And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 

And ate and drank — and starved together. 



86 THE VAGRANTS. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ;' 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ? 

The paw he holds up there's been frozen), 
Plenty of cat-gut for my fiddle 

(This out-door business is bad for strings), 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle. 

And Roger and I set up for kings ! 
Landlord. Will you have a drink ? 
V. No, thank you, sir, I never drink ; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, 
Ain't we, Roger ? 
L. 'Twill warm you, I think. 

V. Well, something hot, then ; we won't quarrel. 
[The landlord pours a glass for him.] 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you, sir !) even of my dog. [Drinks.] 
But he sticks by me, through thick and thin ; 

And this old coat, with its empty pockets, 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 
There isn't another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving 

To such a miserable thankless master ! 
We'll have some music, sir, if you are willing. 

[He plays a tune ; any sweet, old tune that will 
touch a chord in men's hearts will do.] 

L. Are you not tired of this kind of life ? Why 
don't you reform ? 

V. Why not reform ? That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment ; 



THE VAGRANTS. 87 

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
That my old stomach's past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 
Is there a way to forget to think ? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love— but I took to drink — 

The same old story : you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features — 

You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures : 

I was one of your handsome men ! 
If you had seen her, so fair and young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have 
guessed 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 
L. What became of her you loved ? 
V. She's married since — a parson's wife ; 

'Twas better for her that we should part — 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
L. Have you ever met her since? 
V. I have seen her once ; I was weak and spent 

On the dusty road ; a carriage stopped : 
But little she dreamt as on she went, 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! 
You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry ; 

It makes me wild to think of the change ! 



88 ONLY A WOMAN DRUNK. 

What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'Twas well she died before Do you know 

If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 
Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder has he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing, in place of a heart ? [Drinks.] 

L. Well, my poor fellow, you do not lead a very gay 

life, I think. 
V. Not a very gay life to lead, you think; 

But soon we'll go where lodgings are free, 
And the lodgers need neither victuals nor drink — > 

The sooner the better for Roger and me. 



Only a Woman Drunk. 

A CROWD in the busy street, 

A block in the bustling way, 
A pause for the weary feet, 

That scarcely have time to stay. 
u What is the matter ? say ! 

Some one to earth has sunk, 
Why do they stop the way ? 

It's only a woman drunk/' 

Only a woman drunk ! 

Look at her as she lies, 
With her face all mud and dirt, 

And that wild leer in her eyes. 



ONLY A WOMAN DRUNK. 89 

Hark to the grating voice 

Shouting in drunken glee ; 
Would she could see with sober eyes 

Her own deep misery ! 

A woman, did you say ? 

Woman was made to bless, 
To while our cares away, 

To comfort and caress. 
Oh ! who could love that face 

Begrimed by dirt and drink, 
Oh ! who from that embrace 

Would not in terror shrink ? 

Look at her foaming lips ; 

Hark to the muttered curse ; 
A drunkard is a fiend, 

But a woman — oh ! 'tis worse ! 
God save the maidens fair, 

Who gaze upon her now, 
From falling in the snare 

Of the fiend who has laid her low. 

Only a woman drunk ! 

Oh ! sons with mothers dear, 
Pass her not by with a tearless eye, 

But for her drop a tear ; 
Husbands with loving wives, 

Oh ! guard them well I pray, 
And save them from the foul drink fiend, 

Who does all virtue slay. 

Only a woman drunk! 

Once on her mother's breast, 
That woman closed her baby eyes 

And sank to peaceful rest ; 



90 DRINKING DESTROYS THE INTELLECT. 

And when in maiden prime, 

A bashful lover came, 
And whispered words of tenderness 

Until her cheek grew flame. 

Only a woman drunk ! 

That woman was a wife, 
And vowed to love and honor one 

And help him on through life ; 
And children round her knee 

Once lisped their evening prayer — 
O God ! that ever she 

Should lie and wallow there ! 

There on the pavement stone, 

Scoffed at by passers by, 
Singing in drunken tone, 

With that wild leer in her eye : 
Only a woman drunk ! 

Brother, go home and think — 
Think of your mother, sister, wife, 

And save them from the drink. 



Drinking Destroys the Intellect. 

Occupying a place among the animated objects of 
nature, man is properly regarded as a member of the 
great family of God. But he is the constituted lord 
of the creation. He holds a delegated authority 
over the fishes of the sea, the fowls of the air, and 
the beasts of the earth. His authority is unlimited ; 
and though conferred on him by the Creator of all, 
is yet possessed by him in consequence of that higher 



DRINKING DESTROYS THE INTELLECT. 91 

nature which he sustains, and by which he is adapted 
for a more exalted sphere. 

Viewing the great scheme of nature in its most 
comprehensive extent — embracing the reptile that 
crawls in the dust and the angel that waits on the 
throne of the eternal, we are gratified by the eleva- 
tion that is assigned to man, while we are awed by 
the responsibility which that elevation incurs. 
Stationed among the beasts that perish, man partakes 
of the dignity of angels. Propelled by instincts and 
appetites, he knows the workings of a higher princi- 
ple and feels the actings of a nobler agency. Bound 
by the laws of heaven to the interests of time and 
sense — engaged by the grovelling relationships of 
earth, and directed to the pursuits of animal pleas- 
ures and enjoyment, he is capable of transporting 
himself in thought to the highest heavens, and of con- 
versing with the beings of a holier order. He forms 
a resting place between the two extremes of being. 
The weakness of the brute and the energy of the 
angel are in him united. And is not the dignity of 
man enhanced and more exalted still by the eternal 
destiny with which his name is associated ? Oh ! if 
the pride of the human heart may be gratified and 
indulged by contemplating and exerting an authority 
over beings, with what feelings may the heart be ex- 
panded when contemplating that dignity and glory 
which belong to man as a being destined to survive 
the crash of worlds and the wreck of nature ! He is 
gifted with a spark of immortality, the brightness 
and glory of which shall never be obscured. He is 
possessed of a living principle, the vitality of which 
a thousand deaths shall not injure — the vigor, the 
activity, the energy of which eternity itself shall 
never see impaired. 



92 DRINKING DESTROYS THE INTELLECT. 

It may with propriety then be asked, whether it is 
not folly, the most reckless folly, for man to throw 
away the glory of his species and deliberately sink 
into the stupidity of the brute? Can there be mad- 
ness more awful than that of the man who bargains 
his intellect, sells his reason, disposes of his whole 
intellectual endowments, for the short gratification 
of mere animal excitement? The question is neither 
absurd nor ridiculous. Drunkenness necessarily 
tends to the partial if not the perfect deprivation of 
intellect. It presents the eye with a spectacle more 
humiliating than the maniac. It exhibits an instance 
of suicide more painful and distressing than thai of 
the madman. And if to human pride and indepen- 
dence of spirit it be humbling to behold the respec- 
table citizen tranformed by insanity into a contemp- 
tible driveller, how painful to sober and religious 
contemplativeness must be the sight of the man who 
drowns his intellect in the cup, and banishes his rea- 
son by dissipation and debauchery ! Oh ! if the im- 
becility of the idiot humbles and depresses the mind, 
throws the soul back on its native dignity and powers, 
what painful feelings must the drunkard excite, who 
stupefies and maddens the brain by intoxicating 
draughts ? We are accustomed to smile at the 
strange conceits and foolish extravagancies of the 
drunkard, but would it not be suitable to our char- 
acter as men and Christians to regard him with feel- 
ings of sorrow and sympathy, and, for the instruc- 
tion of our children, to point to him in pity and ex- 
claim, behold a fool ! 



THE OLD BRANDY BOTTLE. g3 

The Old Brandy Bottle. 

[This piece will be most effectively recited in the character of a 
sot, his nose reddened, etc.] 

The old brandy bottle ? I've loved it too long, 

It has been a false friend unto me ; 
When I met it at first I was healthy and strong, 

And as handsome as handsome could be. 
I had plenty of cash in my pocket and purse, 

And my cheeks were as red as a rose, 
And the day when I took it for better for worse, 

I'd a beautiful aquiline nose. 

But now only look ! I'm a sight to behold ; 

The beauty I boasted has fled ; 
You would think I was nearly a hundred years old 

When Pm raising my hand to my head ; 
For it trembles and shakes like the earth when it 
quakes, 

And I always am spilling my tea, 
And whenever I speak I make awful mistakes, 

Till every one's laughing at me. 

The ladies don't love me, and this I can trace 

To the loss of my aquiline nose ; 
Like an overgrown strawberry stuck on my face, 

Still larger and larger it grows. 
And I haven't a cent in my pocket or purse, 

And my clothes are all tattered and torn ; 
Oh ! that old brandy bottle has been a sad curse — 

And I wish I had never been born. 

The old brandy bottle ! I'll love it no more, 
It has near ruined my body and soul ; 

Fll dash it to pieces* and swear from this hour, 
To give up both it and the bowl. 

* Suiting the action to the words. 



94 THE DYING GIRL. 

And I'll now go and sign — I could surely do 
worse ; 

On that pledge all my hopes I repose ; 
And I'll get back ray money in pocket and purse, 

And also my beautiful nose. 



The Dying Girl. 

Look how redly glows the sunset on the treetops in 

the lane ; 
Lift my head a little, mother, I may never see it 

again — 
I may die before the morning, for I have been lying 

long, 
And some weeks have dragged on, mother, since you 

thought that I was gone. 

On that dull, cold evening, mother, when I lay so 

still and white, 
And you told poor father I was dead, when he came 

home at night ; 
And he came and knelt beside my bed, and his voice 

was deep and low, 
And he prayed a little prayer, mother, as he used to, 

long ago. 

And he promised you he'd stay at home to comfort 

you at night, 
And help you walk the thorny road that leads to 

realms of light. 
For he thought that I was even there, but I have not 

gone yet ; 
But I am going soon, mother — be sure you do not 

fret. 



95 



THE DYING GIRL, 



I hope he won't be late to-night : I should so like to 

see 
His face once more, and hear his voice just say 

" Good-bye " to me. 
Fd ask him then to promise me — and I do think he 

would — 
That he would never drink again, but help you to be 

good. 

And I'm sure he'd keep his word — he always did to 

me ; 
And, mother, when I am in heaven, I could look 

down and see 
How happy you were living, free from drink and all 

its care, 
And I would stand close to the gate, and wait for 

you both there. 

Hark, mother ! I can hear his feet upon the gravel 

walk ; 
Father, dear father, come to me, I want a little talk. 
Now stand beside my bed — just here — and lay your 

hand in mine. 
The sun has gone to sleep at last — I shall not see it 

shine. 

When I am gone, my father dear, and mother is 

alone — 
When I am lying quietly beneath the churchyard 

stone, 
I want you now to promise me you will not stay out 

late ; 
And, though the men should ask you, don't go in the 

green gate. 



9^ THE DYING GIRL. 

But stay at home with mother dear, and talk to her 

of me, 
That where I soon am going you, too, may also be. 
And go to church on Sunday — you used to like to go, 
And sit in that old-fashioned pew where we sat long 

ago. 

And read your Bible, father dear, at morning and at 

night, 
So that I can come very near, though hid from 

human sight. 
And I shall hear your voice repeat those words of 

love and peace, 
About the land I soon shall see, where sorrows all 

shall cease. 



You will, my father ! say you will ! Oh, bless you for 

that word ! 
It is the sweetest sound that my poor ears have ever 

heard. 
My mother, I can leave you now, for father will be 

kind ; 
You must not fret, my mother dear, when you are 

left behind. 



So take my head upon your breast, and put your 

hand in mine — 
A light is breaking in the sky — the light of love 

divine ! 
I see that white-robed throng again, with crowns 

upon each brow ; 
Make way, make way, ye angel bands, I come to join 

you now ! 



I 



TE 



THE AMERICAN % I 

EMPERANCE SPEAKER 



No. 1. 



A CHOICE COLLECTION OF 

DIALOGUES, PEOSE AH) POETEY, 

ESPECIALLY ADAPTED EOS USE IN ALL 

Adult and Juvenile Temperance Organizations, 
SABBATH AND DAY SCHOOLS, 

AND FOR 

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE READINGS, RECITATIONS AND ADDRESSES. 



Compiled by J. S. OGILVIE. 



NEW YORK: 

American temperance JjJrtblialjtng tyonst, 

29 ROSE STREET, 



3?S 



1879. 



American Temperance Publishing House. 

TEMPERANCE DRAMAS. 

Price Fifteen Cents Each. 

E^ 5 All Organizations would do well to preserve this list for 
future reference. It is^the only complete list ever published. 

Another Glass. — A Drama in 1 Act By Thomas Morton. G 
Male. 3 Female characters. Costumes English, modern. A very effective Tem- 
perance play. Scenery necessary. Time of representation, one hour. 

lunt Dinah's Pledge.— Drama in 2 Acts. By Harry Seymour. 

(New Edition, Revised and Improved.) 6 Male and 3 Female characters. Scenery 
and propei ties easy. Costumes of the present day. Very effective play. Time of 
representation, one hour. 

Bottle, The.— Drama in 2 Acts and 8 Tableaux. By T. P. Taylor. 
11 Male, 6 Female characters. Costumes and properties simple, hut scenery some- 
what difficult. Time of representation, about two hours and a half. 

Closing of the "Ea^le," The.— A Drama in 4 Acts. By H. 

Elliott McBride. 4 Male and 2 Female characters. Costumes, modern. Scenes, 
parlor and bar-room. Time of representation, one hour and fifteen minutes. 

Don't Marry a Drunkard to Reform Him.— A Drama in 5 

Acts. By H. Elliott McEride. 8 Male and 3 Female characters. Costumes, mod- 
ern. Scene, rooms neatly and poorly furnished and bar-room. Time of represen- 
tation, one hour and thirty minutes. 

Drop too Much, A. — Farce in 1 Scene 4 Male, 2 Female charac- 
ters. Two Yankees, Irishman, walking gent, old woman and Yankee girl. Tem- 
perance farce. Time of representation, thirty minutes. 

Drunkard, The J or, The Fallen Saved.— Drama in 5 Acts. 

Adapted by Wm. H. Smith. 13 Male, 5 Female characters. Properties easy. Cos- 
tumes of the present day. A great deal of scenery required, but none of it of a 
very elaborate nature. Time of representation, about two hours and a half. 

Drunkard's Children, The. — Drama in 2 Acts. By J. B. John- 
stone. 20 Male, 6 Female characters. Costumes and properties not very difficult, 
but scenery rather elaborate. Time of representation, about one hour and a half. 

Drunkard's Doom, The ; or, The Last Nail. — Romantic Drama 

in 2 Acts. By G. D. Pitt. 15 Male, 5 Female characters. Costumes, properties, 
and scenery very elaborate. Time of representation, one hour and a half. 

Drunkard's Home, The. — A Drama in 2 Acts. 13 Male, 6 Female 

characters. Costumes modern. Properties easy. Scenes, interiors and exteriors. 
Time of representation, about two hours. 

Drunkard's Warning 1 , The. — Drama in 3 Acts. By C. W. Tay- 
lor. 6 Male, 3 Female characters. Scenery and properties simple. Costumes, 
modern. This play is a general favorite among amateurs. Time of representation, 
about one hour and three-quarters. 

Fatal Glass, The; or, T2ie Curse of Drink. — Drama in 3 Acts. 

By James McCloskey. It Male, 8 Female characters. Costumes, easy ; but proper- 
ties and.scenery, especially the lattc, very difficult. A very effective play for the 
regular stage. Time of representation, about two hours. 

Fifteen Years of a Drunkard's Life.— Melodrama in 3 Acts. 

By Douglas Jerrold. (New Edition, revised and improved.) 10 Male, 4 Femcile 
characters. Costumes modern. Properties, simple. Scenery somewhat elaborate. 

(Time of representation, about one hour and three-quarters. 
Fruits of the Win ^-Cup.— Drama in 3 Acts.. By Jno. H. Allen. 
6 Male, 3 Female characters. Costumes modern. Properties simple. Scenery 
easily arranged. An excellent play for amateur performance . Time of represen- 
tation, about one hour and twenty minutes. 

Game of Billiards, A.— Sketch in 1 Act. By McDermott and 

Trumble. 1 Male, 2 Female characters. Costumes modern. Scene easy. Time 
of representation, twenty minutes. 

Last Drop, The.— Drama in 1 Act. By John H. Delafield. 7 

Male, 3 Female characters. Costumes modern. Scenes, a plain room, a street, and 
a garret. Time of representation, twenty-five minutes. 

Last Loaf, The. — Drama in 2 Acts. 5 Male, 3 Female characters. 
Leading man, juvenile, two low comedians, villain, leading lady, walking lady, and 
soubrette. This drama is intensely interesting as a Temperance drama. Time of 
representation, one hour and thirty minutes. 

16 

"*- J. S. Q01LV1E, Publisher, 29 Rose St., New York. 



American Temperance Publishing House. 

THE AMERICAN 

Temperance Stationery Package. 

Price 25 Cents. 
The American Temperance Publishing House has prepared a. 
package of first-class, fine Note Paper and Envelopes, which every 
family needs, and, in addition, a fine Lead Pencil, Pen Holder, and 
Pens; also, a set of Eight fine Chromo Cards, containing Temperance 
or Scripture texts, suitable for Day or Sunday School Rewards, and 
which would cost alone 20 cents. The following is a list of the con- 
tents, and the retail price which would have to be paid in any store: 

Twenty sheets of fine Note Paper 12 

Twenty fine Envelopes 10 

One fine Lead Pencil 5 

One Pen Holder and Pen , 3 

One set of eight chromo Cards 20 

Total cost, in any store 50 

In order to introduce this Package into every family and commun- 
ity, we have placed the price at 25 cts., postpaid. 

If any person sends for it, and is not perfectly satisfied with it, 
we will cheerfully refund the money by return mail. 

Agents Wanted to introduce it. Men and Women, Boys and 
Girls, can make from Three to Five Dollars a day, selling it, because 
every one that is sold will sell another one. Liberal terms offered. 
Send for particulars. 

TEMPERANCE TRACTS. 

The American Temperance Publishing House has just com- 
menced publishing a series of One Page Hand Bill Tracts, which 
have been carefully prepared, and are specially adapted for distri- 
bution in all communities by individuals and organizations. 

The price is so low that a whole community can be supplied with 
them at an expense of two or three dollars. Will not some one in 
each organization send for samples, make a selection, and then 
scatter them broadcast ? The price is 20 cts. per hundred, or 
$1.50 per thousand. A special reduction will be made when ten 
thousand, or more, are ordered at a time. Specimens sent free. The 
following is the list of those now ready, and others will soon follow : 

Oni> Page Handbill Tracts. 

1. Is Strong" Drink Beneficial? 

2. What the Liquor Traffic Does, 
o. The Rum seller's Invitation. 

4. Song- of the Decanter. 

5. Give Up the Drink ! 

6. Objections to Prohibition. 

7. Where there's Drink, there's Dan- 

ger. 

8. Shall we License the Traffic ? 

9. Give me Back my Husband? 

10. Apply to the Rumseller. 

11. Vote it Out. 
The above tracts are put up in packets from No. 1 to 6, each containing 

125 tracts. Price, by mail, post-paid, 25 cents each. Address 

J. S. OGILVIE, Publisher, 29 Rose St., New York. 



12. What will you Take ? 

13. A Glass of Cold Water. 

14. Don't Drink. 

15. The Effect of Ale and Beer. 

16. Which will you Choose? 

17. What is Moderation ? 

18. The Power of Alcohol. 

19. What Does Strong- Drink Do ? 

20. How the Drunkard must be Saved. 

21. Beware ! 

22. Don't Drink, Boys. 



American Temperance Publishing House. 
TEMPERANCE LECTURES 

BY 

JOHN B. dOUGH. 

Price, IO cents each. 

The American Temperanca Publishing House have just commenced publishing a 
series of lectures on Temperance, and now announce that the first three given by 
tbat prince of orators, John B. Gough, are ready. Mr. Gough needs no introduction 
or recommendation. His name is a household word in this and other lands, and we 
arc glad to be able to offer to the many thousands who have been unable to listen to 
his burning words of eloquence these lectures, in the hope that hi3 influence may 
reach and aid many who are struggling against the monster of strong drink. 

Each lecture contains 24 pages, in paper cover, and is illustrated by a fine wood en- 
graving of Mr. Gough, and also his autograph, wliich alone is worth the price of the 
pamphlet. 

No. I. OUR BATTLE ORY: TOTAL ABSTINENCE. 
No. 2. THE FORCE OF APPETITE. 
No. 3. THE ONLY REMEDY. 

Price 10 cts. each; per doz., $1.00. The three lectures in one pamphlet, price 25 cts. 
Special rates will be given for cheap editions on thin paper for general distribu- 
tion . No better work can be done by any organization or individual than to place a 
copy of each of these lectures in every family in their community. Other lectures by 
Mr. Gough and other eminent men will soon follow. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS 

OP 

JOHN B. GOUGH. 

Comprising a complete history of his eventful life, an account of his childhood In 
England, with thrilling details of his almost superhuman struggles against intempe- 
rance ! His wretched condition and final victory ; his labors in behalf of Temperance ; 
his first speech, together with an account of hi3 experience and success as a lecturer. 
Also, vivid pen paintings of what he saw and heard in England. The whole enlivened 
by anecdotes, affecting incidents, and personal experiences, many of which are 
amusing, interesting, and full of pathos, and which no one can describe better than 
Mr. Gough. 

The aim of the author in writing this book has been to give a full history of his 
life, from his birth and childhood in England to his arrival in this country; 
his course of dissipation, with an account of his reformation, subsequent breaking 
of the pledge, and the terrible experience of September, 1845. Also, his career as a 
public speaker, cases of reform through his labors, his first and last visit to England. 
A full history of his work, reaching on to the present time, and concluding with an 
account of the celebration of the " Silver Wedding ' ' of Mr. and Mrs. Gough, at their 
home near Worcester. 

The work is published in a handsome octavo volume of 550 pages, on fine white 
paper, printed from electrotype plates, and is embellished by an elegant portrait of 
Mr. Gough, engraved on steel, and other illustrations by George Cruikshank and 
ether eminent artists, and is bound in neat and substantial binding. Prices: Extra 
English cloth binding, beautiful white paper, $3.25 ; leather binding, $5.75; 
half calf binding, §4.50. 

This book cannot be had except through the publisher ' s agents. Sent by mail, poit- 
paid, to any address on receipt of price. Agents wanted to canvass for it, to whom 
the most liberal terms are offered. Send for particulars. 

18 

— J, S, OGILVIE, Publisher, 29 Rose St., New York. 



